


Daughter of Dragons

by tigersgirl



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasy, Romance, Sexual Content, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersgirl/pseuds/tigersgirl
Summary: Two hundred years have passed since the events of The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, and it is now 4E 201. The High King of Skyrim has been killed, and the threat of Civil War looms over the land of Skyrim; One side wishes to secede from the weakened Third Empire, while the other wishes to remain a part of it. To make matters worse, this schism is the final event in a prophecy foretold by the Elder Scrolls that will lead to the return of the dragons under Alduin, the Nordic god of destruction. In the middle of this chaos, a woman with a unique appearance and an even more unique purpose fights for Skyrim's freedom, alongside her loyal (if blunt) ranger companion.
Relationships: Bishop/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Bishop/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Brynjolf/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	1. Unbound

I

**Unbound**

When she woke, there was an ache in her head that was unparalleled. In an attempt to regain her darkened sight, she blinked until the light began to filter in. There was the sound of a wagon, horses, the smell of the pines. But her hands were not freed. Rough, blistering ropes appeared to be tied around her wrists and she was unable to move. Looking down, she realized that her weapons had been removed. Panicked, she looked around her for some sort of storage where they were being held.

“Hey, you. You're finally awake,” a man’s voice said in a thick Nordic accent. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there,” the Nord gestured with his head to a scrawny, rat-like man cowering in the corner of the wagon.

When she was able to see more clearly and make out the man’s face, she observed the contents of the wagon. There was, indeed, two other men in it with her. The Nord soldier, the thief, and another man. Noble, proud, perhaps twice her size. His mouth was covered in a linen gag and his eyes were fixed on the forests behind them. 

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” the rat-like man whined, “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there. You and me -- we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“Well, then,” she coughed. She rolled her neck, trying to work out some of the muscle tension from being knocked unconscious. “Rather poor timing,” she chuckled, darkly. 

“We're all brothers and sisters in binds now,” the Nordic man said, proudly. 

An Imperial Soldier smacked the top of the Nord’s head, “Shut up back there!”

The thief looked at the gagged man.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

She looked over at the gagged man. It was a name she had heard echoed in every whisper in the Imperial City. He had attempted to usurp the sitting king. His actions had launched the province into a long overdue civil war. As she rode in the wagon now, she saw the evidence of Skyrim’s distress marked all over its landscape. Hills that used to be green and lush were marked with the flames and scars of battles fought. 

The thief cried out, “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don't know where we're going,” the Nord murmured, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening.”

“What village are you from, horse thief?”

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

The thief looked so small, so frail, as he answered, “Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead.”

The Nord looked at her, “And you? Where are you from?” his expression betrayed that he truly had little idea of where it was she was born. This was a common reaction to her, though. Her skin was pale, often making her look ill. But it was not her most distinguishing characteristic. Almost congruent in color to her skin was her hair. It was white, otherworldly so. As it was often the source of unwarranted, cruel attention as a child, she tended to keep it hidden to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Her appearance was, in some ways, desaturated. It was cold and white and wild, like the snows of Skyrim that she had come back to. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she replied. Her fear was mounting. There was very little chance she was going to find a way out of this, and she was not even remotely prepared to die. The wagon slowed as they approached a small town, one that was unfamiliar to her. But, this was to be expected. Though she was born in Skyrim, she knew very little of its landscape. Adjusting her body to the left, she could see the citizens of the small town watch with interest and concern. Imperial Soldiers were poised in the town square. A soldier called out to a man who looked to be in command, his armor and air were superior to all the other soldiers gathered there. 

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!”

“Good,” the man said with an Imperial accent and a tired expression, “Let's get this over with, shall we?”

The thief had begun to shake in his seat.

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, _please help me_.”

“General Tullius,” the Nord soldier said, his expression soured, “And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

She noticed then that there were a small group of High Elves standing behind the soldiers, their eyes bright and hungry. 

The Nordic soldier turned his gaze to the town itself and a faint smile played upon his lips as he did so. “This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Funny,” he sighed, “when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

A man and his daughter watched as the wagon passed them. The little girl cocked her head and watched with a focused interest.

“Who are they, papa? Where are they going?”

The man took the little girl’s shoulders and steered her inside. 

“You need to go inside, little cub.”

“Why? I want to watch the soldiers.”

“Inside the house. Now.”

The little girl turned, begrudgingly, and went inside. The wagon slowed to a stop.

“Why are they stopping?” the thief said. 

The Nordic warrior was matter of fact in his response, “Why do you think? End of the line. Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

The Imperial soldiers came around the back of the wagon and began to direct the prisoners to exit it, but the thief began to scream.

“No! Wait! We're not rebels!”

“Face your death with some courage!” the Nord soldier warned.

The thief turned to her, his face paled with fear, “You've got to tell them! We weren't with them! This is a mistake! We shouldn’t be here!” He started to sob. 

A woman in Imperial Armor barked orders in front of them, “Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!”

The Nordic soldier chuckled, “Empire loves their damn lists.”

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.”

Ulfric, his brow stern and his body rigid and tall, stepped forward. The Nordic soldier spoke softly to him as he passed.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric.”

The Jarl gave him an encouraging nod, and proudly made his way forward in the line.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The Nordic soldier stepped forward. As the list began to dwindle, the thief shifted in his stance and was looking toward the road to the east.

“Don’t,” Freya warned. When they entered Helgen, the first thing she had done was survey the inside of the town for a way out. There was none and it was a fool’s errand to try.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The thief did not step forward. Imperial guards began to pull him, forcefully, toward the block and he screamed as they did. 

“No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!”

Suddenly, the thief broke through the imprisonment of the Imperial’s arms and fled toward the road, crying and running with all his strength. But, it would not matter.

The Imperial woman sighed, almost as if she was bored, and gestured to her left.

“Archers!”

Three soldiers stepped up, poised their bows, and shot at Lokir. He was downed in a single shot, left screaming in agony. The Imperial woman gestured toward him and a soldier walked over to where he was crawling on the ground, bent down with his blade, and silenced him, permanently. 

The Captain turned her attention back to the rest of the prisoners. 

“Anyone else feel like running?”

The Imperial man in charge of administering the execution glanced in the direction of the wagon, wary. 

“Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?”

A soldier pushed her forward so she was standing right in front of Hadvar. Holding back the urge to almost snarl, she addressed him.

“My name is Freya,” she spat.

“And your surname?”

Freya looked at him but did not answer. He had not earned that. 

Hadvar cleared his throat and addressed the women next to him.

“Captain, what should we do with her? She isn’t on the list.”

With bated breath, she waited for the captain’s response. 

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

Two Imperial men stood behind her, grabbed her arms, and pushed her forward. Frantically, she looked around her for something to aid an escape. But, she knew it was a futile search. There was nothing. This was it. 

Hadvar looked apologetically at her. General Tullius eyed Jarl Ulfic and paced around him, clearly reveling in the moment.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace--”

In the middle of the Emperor’s monogue, a great thundering noise was heard ringing in the mountainside. Freya watched the skies, looking for its source, but found none. It was no beast she had before. It sounded ancient. 

Hadvar’s gaze followed hers and he addressed the general, “What was that?”  
Tullius rolled his eyes at the interruption, “It’s nothing. Bring in the priestess.”

A priestess of Arkay approached the prisoners, positioning herself for the blessing. 

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius,” she began, “blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved--”

One of the Stormcloak soldiers from the other wagons walked forward, silencing her.

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.”

The headsmen positioned himself to execute the soldier and all eyes were locked on his head as it rolled from the block to the dirt below. But not Freya’s. Her focus was still on the skies, on that sound she had heard before. There was something about its thunder that felt known to her, like she had heard it before. 

“Next, the girl,” the Imperial Captain called. Freya did not notice it was her that was being called until she was forcibly moved from her position and dragged to the block. But there was that sound again, that thunderous roar that echoed off the rocks of the keep and made itself known. 

“There it is again,” Hadvar said, “Did you not hear that?”

The Imperial woman frowned, “I said bring the girl.”

The soldiers dragged her to where the executed soldier had been laid, his headless body laid carelessly beside her. They pushed her face down on the blood, still covered in the blood of its previous occupant. It happened so quickly, she had little time to comprehend her own death. All she could think of was that she had not seen the sky this blue in years. 

Then, again, was the thunder. But this time, it was not alone. The keep above her shook and she forced her gaze to it. Guards, soldiers and townspeople screamed around her. She looked and her eyes locked with a large, black dragon. His body was half the size of Helgen itself and his great winds were like the harbingers of death. Blood red eyes focused on her for a moment and it was almost as if it was laughing. 

It opened its great mouth and fire poured from it, killing the headsmen and the soldiers around her. Freya stood, her hands still bound, and ran as fast as she could for some sort of cover. The General was screaming at his own guards.

“Don't just stand there, kill that thing! Guards, get the townspeople to safety!”

Soldiers readied their bows and arrows and others helped the women, children, and men or the town inside their homes. But Freya knew they would not be safe, even there. Fire permeated everything. As quickly as she could, she ran to the wagon and opened the satchels that were hitched to its side. There, she saw her bow, quiver, daggers, and cowl. As quickly as she could, she used the space between her arms to grab them. Then, she saw the man from before and his daughter run inside their home and she screamed for them as the dragon began to rage and spew its flame over their roof. Without thinking, she ran towards the burning home and ran her side into the door, opening its hinges. She dropped her effects.

“Get out! Get out of there!” she screamed, and the man and his daughter huddled in the corner. She ran over to where they were crouched and using what she could of her hands, forced them to stand. “Get up and run! Now! Get out!”

As she did so, the roof began to cave in and she pushed the man and the small girl in his arms out by force, knocking them onto the porch with the roof collapsing behind them. Freya gestured with her head to one of the stone watchtowers in the corner of the town, “This way!”  
She grabbed her things and ran as fast as she could. This time, the man did not hesitate. He picked up his little girl and followed her. The dragon destroyed the town, with flame and force. Freya kept her eyes open for falling debris but she could not look away from it. 

“ _Toor…. Shul!”_

She realized that the dragon was speaking. It was not only the thundering roar she heard, but its voice. Running as fast as she could, briefly looking behind her to track the man and his child, they made their way to one of the watchtowers. Once inside, the man, breathing hard and shaking, looked at her with tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he breathed, holding his daughter close.

Freya nodded and looked ahead inside the tower. She glanced back at the man, “You may want to cover her eyes,” she murmured.

Inside the tower was littered with death. Stormcloaks, Imperials. It did not matter what side they chose now. Death does not choose sides. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she noticed the Nordic soldier from the wagon was there, mourning what was left of his kinsman.

“Ralof!” she called and he turned. 

There was a loud crash from outside and the voice of the dragon was somehow still ear-piercing, even within stone walls.

“ _Vol toor shul!_ ”

The others cowered in fear, but Freya could not help but look out the small opening in the tower. The dragon soared above the town, speaking fire into existence. It was mesmerizing.

“Looks like we're the only ones who made it,” Ralof said, his voice heavy with grief. “Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?” 

Freya did not answer. Her eyes still followed the dragon as it made its way through the town. She could not look away.

“We should keep moving,” Ralof said, approaching here. “Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.” He took a blade and cut the linen wraps on her wrists. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, rubbing where they had been left sore. 

“Let's keep moving. Come on, this way,” he said and ran down the hall.

Freya glanced at the man and he nodded. This was their home. Where else could they possibly have to go? She put her bow and quiver over her shoulder and put on her dagger belt. Pulling her cowl over her head, she followed Ralof into the dark. 

* * *

They made their way through the underforge of the keep and found a cave opening that led to the other side of the mountain. She could hear the sounds of the birds and see the light of the sun from a crack in the stone wall. Both she and Ralof slid through it and were accosted by the sunlight. They both studied the horizon, listening to the distant roars of the dragon and the screams of who was left at Helgen. Freya shivered.

Ralof turned to her, bending over and catching his breath. “My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road,” he coughed, “I'm sure she'd help you out. Good luck. I wouldn't have made it without your help today. You know,” he looked her up and down, assessing her strength, “you should go to Windhelm and join the fight for free Skyrim. If anyone will know what this dragon means, it's Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Freya smiled, thinly, “I will think about it. Let’s just get to Riverwood.”

* * *

Riverwood was a small town, green and lush and warm. The mill was poised over a clear river and the few houses there were well lived in. It was comforting. Freya followed Ralof, her cowl donned and paired with a mask she wore over her face. It hid most of her, so only her eyes were visible. She had learned a long time ago that it was better to travel this way. Because of her unique appearance she was often memorable, which was not always a favorable position to be in. When they arrived at the mill, a pretty, blonde woman stood at its doors sweeping. It was, very clearly, Ralof’s sister. Their resemblance was uncanny. 

“Gerdur!” he called out to her and she looked over, dropping her broom.

“Brother! Mara's mercy, it's good to see you!” she cried and ran to him, wrapping him in a tearful embrace. “Is it safe for you to be here? We heard that Ulfric had been captured.”

“Gerdur, I’m fine. At least for now.”

“Are you hurt? What’s happened?” She looked at Freya, “And who is this?”

“A friend,” Ralof said warmly, “Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials.”

“Helgen? What are you talking about? What’s happened?”

“Let’s talk over here,” Ralof said, and gestured to a clearing by the small river. 

Gerdur waved over at her husband, “Hod! Get down here! I need your help.”

The man, large and burly, rolled his eyes, “What, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?”

Gerdur placed her hands on her hips, “For the love of Talos, get over here.”

Freya decided to herself that she liked this Gerdur. 

Hod came down and approached Ralof with that same loving embrace, “Ralof! What are you doing here?” He glanced at Freya, “And who is this?”

Freya extended a hand, “An acquaintance of your brother-in-law. Let’s leave it at that for now.” Hod nodded, warily, and shook her hand. 

Ralof sat on a nearby rock, with his head in his hands. His sister waited patiently for him to speak. I can't remember when I last slept,” he sighed, rubbing tired eyes. “Gods, where to start? Well, the news you heard about Ulfric was true. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing. Like they knew exactly where we'd be. That was two days ago, now. We stopped in Helgen this morning and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman's block and ready to start chopping. They wouldn't dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason for fighting for your own people! All of Skyrim would've seen the truth then. But then, out of nowhere, a dragon attacked.”

Gerdur looked pale, “You don't mean a real, live…”

Ralof nodded, “I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there. As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?”

“Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know.”

“Good. Maybe we can lay up for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur--”

“Nonsense. You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let me worry about the Imperials. Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine,” she said, and turned to Freya. She looked her over and gestured to the inn behind her. “The woman that owns the Sleeping Giant Inn, Delphine, she seems to be good with tending wounds, that sort of thing. Maybe she could offer you some supplies? We have nothing to help you with that. Do you have any gold? I can pay for a room for you.”

Freya nodded, “Thank you, I will be fine,” she gestured to her quiver, “I have enough.”

“Alright,” Gerdur said. Ralof and Hod began to walk toward her house and she watched them go, worry creasing her forehead and shadowing her features. “There is something you can do for me. For all of us here.”

“What do you need?”

“The Jarl needs to know. Riverwood is defenseless. We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever soldiers he can. If you'll do that for me--”

“Consider it done. I can leave in the morning.”

“Thank you, sister,” she said, taking Freya’s hands, “I need to get back to my son. But the inn is across the way, you can’t miss it in such a small town.”

Freya looked toward the direction of the inn and noticed that amidst the drinkers and children sitting on the stoop, there stood a man who looked very out of place with the town. And he was watching her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to write the main questline of Skyrim in depth with the Dragonborn DLC, but I did also decide to include the basic framework from the Skyrim Romance mod. Basically, I like the IDEA of the mod and the creators desire to make something for us ladies (if you mod out your game then you know the community is primarily heterosexual men) but I feel personally that it requires serious re-writes regarding lore, characterization, dialogue and timeline. So, I will be taking its best parts and using those. If you aren’t familiar with the mod, it won’t affect your experience with the story. If you are familiar with it, I imagine I will significantly improve your experience with Bishop as a character overall because I will be expanding on that relationship dynamic and arc. 
> 
> If you follow my other book, I will still be working on that consistently! I work full time right now (very lucky) but the shutdown has given me a HELL of a lot of spare time as I am immune-compromised and in Southern California.


	2. Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya finds a guide to Whiterun, but with a condition.

II

**Bishop**

Freya left Ralof with the promise to meet him in Windhelm, when the time was right. With her cowl over her head and her mask still pulled over her nose, she admitted to herself that she cut a suspicious figure in the middle of a small mill town like Riverwood. As she walked down the road toward the inn, two drunkards began to leer at her. If it had been a different day, she would have kneed them in the groin. But she needed food and water and there were burns on her skin that needed to be wrapped. As she approached the inn, that same man was standing there, leaning against the frame of the front door, watching her curiously, and blocking her way to the inn. As she had observed before, he felt as though he didn’t seem to fit within the rough, Nordic confines of the town. He had a quiver and bow on his back and the expression of a man who gets what he wants. One thing she did notice was that his eyes were an odd hue, akin to an amber gold. It was unsettling. She resolved to be rid of his gaze as quickly as possible and find a guide to Whiterun.

“Excuse me,” she said, brushing past the man. 

“What, you didn’t hear those two drunks on the way up here?”

She paused and threw him a sideways glance. “Obviously,” she said, lifting a brow.

“So, what? You so used to that kind of thing you turn your nose up at it like some damned noble?” he quipped. 

She frowned, “We going to have a problem, you and I?

“No, we aren’t,” the man said, “I was merely curious.”

Freya was impatient by default and this man was exacerbating that condition. “Sorry, princess. Did you want some drunk to pay attention to you, too?” She gestured to the men still whistling and hollering in the road. “Have at it, then. Enjoy.”

“Wha--” the man scoffed, “ _Princess_? Look, I was trying to tell you to give them a wide berth, alright?” 

“Note taken, excuse me.”

Freya pushed her way into the inn and immediately made her way to the innkeeper, who was polishing a tankard and humming to himself.

“I need to speak to someone named Delphine,” she said, “Is she here?”

The man frowned and appraised her, “Ah, no. She isn’t,” he put the tankard down and extended a hand, “Orgnar.”

Freya shook his hand but did not offer her own name. The innkeeper noticed.

“What, uh,” he said, “what can I do for you, traveler?”

“Do you have linen?”

“I believe so.”

“Alright. I need a room and some linen strips, clean.”

“I can get that for you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, briefly, “I also need a guide to Whiterun. I—” she cleared her throat, “—I was born here, but I haven’t been back to the provinces in a long time. I have little idea of where I am. Anyone here for that? They’d be paid.”

Orgnar picked the tankard back up and proceeded to clean it. He gestured with his head toward the door, “If you need a guide, then you passed the best of them walking in.”

Freya frowned, “You’re kidding.”

“No,” he chuckled, “Bishop stops in here quite a bit. He would be your best bet if you need someone to take you to Whiterun.”

Freya sighed and leaned against the innkeeper’s stool.

“Alright,” she sighed, “Thank you.”

Orgnar smiled at her and pointed to one of the small rooms adjacent to the fireside. 

“I will prepare your room for you, you can pay in the morning. Ten gold for the night.”

Freya shook her head and pulled out the gold, leaving it on the table, “Why pay tomorrow when I can pay you now?” She walked into the room she had rented and lay her weapons on the table. However, she did not remove her cowl or her mask. Not yet. 

Rubbing her eyes, she made her way to the front of the inn where the man--Bishop--was still standing, still smug, and still unsettling.

“Look who came crawling back,” he smirked.

“I hear you know the landscape well.”

“I do.”

“Alright,” she sighed, “I’ll cut you a deal. You take me to Whiterun. You get paid and I get where I need to go quickly. How about that?”

“You need to get to Whiterun?”

“Yes. Immediately.”

He eyed her, warily, and then cocked his head. “How about this, ladyship,” he said, crossing his arms, “I take you to Whiterun for free, but with a little side trip. I was tracking my wolf, Karnwyr, around the area. We were separated a couple days ago and I’ve been hearing rumors of bandits holding pit fights this side of Skyrim. You help me, I help you.”

“You want me to help you find your dog,” Freya repeated.

“Wolf,” Bishop corrected, “And yes, he’s all I’ve got, and there are going to be too many bandits holed up with him to take care of it myself.”

“Your only friend is a dog,” Freya said, almost to herself, “Explains a lot.”

Bishop frowned, “We both get what we want this way, alright?”

She appraised him, quickly, and then nodded, “Alright. Deal.” She held out a gloved hand and he shook it, skeptically. 

“You have a name?”

“Freya.”

“Freya,” he repeated, “Right. Bishop.”

“I know.”

He raised a brow and chuckled, “Following me, were you?”

She rolled her eyes and called over her shoulder, “If I was following you, ranger, you’d be dead by now. We leave first thing in the morning.”

Bishop looked like he was about to speak but she had walked away before he could. Desperately, she needed a bath and a moment to herself to take in everything that had happened over the past two days. She entered her room and closed the door behind her. Orgnar had left a plate with cheese and bread at the table in her room and the strips of linen were placed on the chair. She took a mental note to leave him some additional gold in the morning for his kindness. Exhausted, she sat on the fur-covered bed and removed her cowl and pulled down her mask. It wasn’t really needed in Skyrim. No one knew her, no one claimed her, no one cared about her. But it was a comfort to have that kind of anonymity. It had served her well in the past. Slowly, carefully, she removed her armored doublet and exposed the skin of her back underneath. The heat of the burns was singing, but she knew if she didn’t clean them and wrap them, she risked infection. Deftly, she took the linens and did so. Wincing as she did, tears began to form in his eyes as she thought of the horror of the day. She wondered if that little girl was safe or if the horrified faces of the townspeople of Helgen would always be burned into the forefront of her memory. When she closed her eyes, all that played behind them was the blood red eyes of that dragon as it studied her. As she thought of those eyes, somehow, she drifted into sleep. 

* * *

At dawn, she dressed, left a small coin purse on the room table for Orgnar, and left the inn with her cowl on and her mask pulled over her face. When she walked outside, Bishop was already waiting for her on the road.

“Looks like she finally woke up,” he grinned. He looked her over and circled his own face in a gesture, “You always dress like a necromancer?”

She brushed past him, “You always spend your days idling outside of inns like a hermit?” Freya began walking down the road when she heard the sound of a tongue clicking behind her. 

“Now, where do you think you’re going?”

She looked back at him. 

“To--” she started, and realized that she did not, in fact, know where she was going.

Bishop’s grin widened and he saluted her briefly, “Follow close behind me, ladyship, and enjoy the view."

* * *

Instead of taking the main road, they cut across the forest. For a while, they both walked in silence. Very briefly, there would be a pack of wolves that they would allow to pass at a distance, or a small camp of bandits they would work around. Freya was impressed with his knowledge of the terrain and as much as it frustrated her, she did feel she had probably found the most knowledgeable guide available at the time. They covered significant ground during the day but as the night began to fall, it was time to rest. Not for the whole night, but it would do her little go to force her way through the dark without rest for too long. 

There was a small, protected enclave of trees that suited just fine for their purposes. As the darkness trickled in, Freya began looking for kindling for a fire. Bishop had already started to build out a small hole for a fire pit and stacking small sticks on top of it. She brought him some dried-out grass to help spur it to flame quicker. 

“Here,” she murmured, kneeling down and putting the dried materials in between the kinkling. Curiously, he watched her arrange the fire.

“You know what you’re doing,” he observed.

“I do.”

At that, he said nothing. He just raised a brow and sat back and let her handle the flame. 

After the fire had been lit, Freya laid out her bedroll and sat on it. They had positioned themselves at opposite ends of the fire. Bishop watched her, studying her, and she watched the flames as they flicked and licked at the kindling.

“Find something else to stare at, please,” she said after a moment, glancing up at him. He was wearing that same, self-satisfied expression that she had come to understand was his default. “This is going to be a very tedious trip if you don’t.”

“Just trying to guess what you look like under there,” he mused. 

“That is tremendously ambitious of you.”

He chuckled and lent back on his own bedroll, his head resting on his hands.

“Do you know any songs?” he asked, only partially serious.

“Yes.”

“Will you sing one?”

“Not for you,’ she said pointedly and he nodded.

“Well, you are right about one thing, ladyship,” he said, stretching.

“And what is that?”

He turned over and closed his eyes, “This is going to be a very tedious trip.”

* * *

When they had tracked Karnwyr to a small encampment, they both made their way to a a more strategic position. There were three bandits outside a small cave and enclosed in large, iron cages were several wolves. Freya looked over them.

“He one of those?” she asked softly and Bishop shook his head. 

She took one flank, and he another, and they both positioned their arrows and loosed them at the same time, taking down two of the three bandits. Then, she moved on the third, slipping behind him quietly and slitting his throat with a singular, quick stroke. After that, they advanced on the cave entrance. 

“Careful, ladyship,” Bishop murmured, “Our footsteps will echo in every chamber and tunnel of this--”

Freya cut him off, “I know that.”

“Well, then stop stomping around like a goddamned swamp boar.”

She threw him a look, took in a deep breath and calmed herself as they continued into the cave. Two more bandits were poised by a fire in the first entreeway. Silently, she signaled to him to take the left. She took the right. With the same quick, sharp movements as before, she snuck up behind the man and slit his throat. When they continued into the cave, there were another four more bandits. 

He signaled for the first two, and Freya took care of the second. With her bow, she positioned her arrow at the bandit’s head and released it. When the other man was alerted, she ran at him and wrapped her leg around his knees, knocking him to the floor. With her hand covering his mouth, she thrust her dagger into his heart. With less finesse but equal speed, Bishop was taking down the other two bandits.

At the end of the tunnel, there was another cage. In it, was a sable furred wolf. He was unlike the others outside the cave. He looks well fed, and afraid. Making his way to the back of the cage, he growled at her. Freya immediately removed her cowl and her mask so he could see her human face, and lowered her daggers. Kneeling low, she approached him, speaking to him softly as she did.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. 

As she got closer to the cage, he proceeded to stop growling and stared at her with interest. She picked the lock and opened it, taking a step back to allow him to come to her on his own terms. He approached her, licking her hands and smelling her face. 

“Hello, there,” she smiled, resting her hand against his muzzle. 

“Ah, there you are, you mutt,” Bishop said, coming up behind her, “What the hell were you thinking, getting yourself--”

Bishop stopped at the opening of the stone hallway where she was sitting with Karnwyr. He scoffed for a moment at how quickly they had become acquainted, and then looked over at her. Perusing her now uncovered face, he stifled a smile. 

“So, that’s why you keep the mask on, huh?”

Freya sighed, “If you are going to make some sort of ‘last-of-the-Snow-Elves’ comment I can promise you, I have already heard it.”

“No,” Bishop said, ‘That is not what I was going to say.” She walked past him toward the back of the cave and Karnwyr happily followed her. Bishop raised his eyebrows at the pair. “Well, then. Nice to see you too, buddy.”

“There’s still something back here!” Freya called over her shoulder. As she did, she approached what appeared to be a back-alley gambling hall. There was a makeshift pen and bar setup, with blood and wolf carcusses piled on the rocks beside it. The bartender and other gamblers turned and readied their weapons.

Karnwyr had begun to growl and snap, his teeth sharp and lethal. Bishop knelt down next to him for a moment and smiled, “Let’s make these sons of bitches pay.”

With that, the wolf attacked the nearest gambler and tore into his arm, the man screaming and crying as the blood pooled. Freya thought she could hear the tearing of muscle for a moment and it was oddly satisfying.

After the cave had been cleared and their clothes had been properly stained with blood, they ventured back into the sunlight. Freya couldn’t help but smile at the wolf’s pure joy at being reunited with his master and the child-like affection between them. It would be sweet if it was with anyone else in Nirn. 

“We need to go,” she finally called after them.


	3. Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya and Bishop arrive in Whiterun, and speak to the Jarl.

III

**Whiterun**

****

Again, they cut across forests rather than seek the main road. Because of the solitude of their location, Freya thought it would be safe to keep her cowl and mask down. It was a welcome change, the clean air of Skyrim’s mountains was extraordinarily invigorating. Frankly, there was little reason for her to have it on to begin with. Maybe it was to keep the inevitable stares that accompanied her in large crowds at bay. At present, she was standing by the cold, jagged rock face of the mountains, watching as the sun set in the distance. A soft breeze blew through her white hair and she closed her eyes, savoring the moment. 

“You realize,” Bishop said, now behind her, “I have been traveling with you for almost three days now and I know damn little about you.”

She couldn’t help but be surprised at the sound of his voice, he had been so quiet as he had approached her. It was impressive. She glanced at him and returned her attention to the gold and pink hues of the setting sun.

“Yes,” she said pointedly, “I do realize that”

“Color me intrigued,” he teased, watching Karnwyr sniff the ground in the distance. Freya watched the wolf as well, a smile creeping up her lips.

“I’ll concede to you on one thing,” she gestured to Karnwyr, “he’s remarkable.”

Bishop smiled at Karnwyr, a deep, genuine affection coloring his features.

“Been with that wolf since I was seventeen. I told you,” he looked at her, “He’s all I have.”

“You’ve been on your own since you were seventeen?”

“Yes,” he frowned, “not by choice.”

Freya smiled, briefly. “I know what that’s like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said, her expression guarded.

Bishop grinned, “That’s it? No thrilling backstory to accompany that little fact?”

“Not today,” she said.

“I am going to get something out of you, ladyship,” Bishop said over his shoulder as he walked toward Karnwyr, “whether you like it or not. Come on, we aren’t more than an hour from Whiterun. We can make it by dark.”

* * *

As they approached Whiterun and it came into view, Freya couldn’t help but feel a bubbling excitement in her core. She had never been to a major city in Skyrim and she felt like a child, eager to see something new, despite the circumstances of her visit. It was dark now, and the torches in the watchtower outside the city were clear and bright. There appeared to be some small farms below the city itself, which was perched on a series of small hills. It was close now, she could find her way there alone. She turned to Bishop.

“Well, then,” she extended a hand to him, “I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you, for your help. You got us here quickly.”

Bishop raised a brow, “That eager to be rid of me, huh?” 

“We can see the city from here. I can make my way there alone perfectly fine. Though,” she shifted in her stance, “I do think there is something you should know. I imagine everyone already knows in the major towns anyway--”

He crossed his arms and gestured for her to continue, “Alright, now I’m interested. Enlighten me.”

“Before Riverwood,” she began, her expression pained, “I was in Helgen.”

“Why were you in Helgen?”

“I was being executed,” she said matter of factly.

Bishop blinked. 

“That’s it? ‘I was being executed’, she says. Just a minor detail.”

“I think that’s pretty self explanatory,” she rolled her eyes, “Stop interrupting.” He seemed to enjoy her frustration. “But now,” she took in a deep breath, “Helgen is gone.”

He watched her, waiting for the punchline.

“Do you understand?”

“Absolutely not,” he lifted a brow, “but you said to stop interrupting so I am just going to let you handle it.”

“There was a dragon attack, in Helgen,” she said slowly. “The town is gone.”

“What? A _dragon_ attack?”

“Yes.”

“Harbinger of the End Times, that kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Bishop said, running a hand through his hair, “I am starting to understand the whole--” he gestured to her, “--mysterious woman in black, necromancer thing. You are just a herald of woe, aren’t you?”

“Exactly,” she sighed, “and I need to ask the Jarl to send soldiers to protect the citizens of Riverwood. They have no defenses. If there was an attack--” she trailed off, her brow furrowed.

“Alright,” Bishop said, his hands on his hips, “then we need to get to Dragonsreach. Now.”

“We?”

“If you think I am letting you go alone with news _that_ important, then you’re insane.”

He had a point. With that, they made their way toward the city. 

* * *

The Gates of Whiterun were closed to them, with guards standing at the mouth of the city. Freya approached them and they stopped her immediately. 

“Halt! City's closed with dragons about. Official business only,” the guard said, his face covered by his helmet. 

“That’s why I’m here,” Freya commanded, “I was in Helgen.”

The guard stepped back. 

“Helgen? By the gods. You better go on in. You'll find the Jarl at Dragonsreach, atop the hill,” he said, and gestured to the others to open the heavy gate.

“Thank you,” Freya breathed and ran past him.

Inside, Whiterun was still bustling. Even in the evening, there was life. The first thing she saw on her left was an inn, The Drunken Huntsman. An armory stood to her right, with a woman working into the night on some sort of greatsword. Her excitement must have been evident on her face, because Bishop was laughing at her.

“What?” she said.

“You look like we’ve just stumbled on some long lost Dwarven riches. It’s _Whiterun_.”

“I grew up in Skyrim,” Freya explained, “I left as a child, never saw much of it.” She started walking down the path, looking around at the market stalls in the middle of town. “Always wanted to see the Gildergreen,” she murmured, almost to herself. 

“Can’t say I get too excited about a damned tree,” he cocked his head toward the inn, “but drowning my night in wine sounds about right.”

“Well, you go do that,” Freya chided, “and I’ll go prevent the destruction of the entire province.” 

“Alright, alright,” Bishop rolled his eyes, “You've made your point, let's go.”

She hurried through the city, trying to ignore the prying eyes of the townspeople.

Climbing the stairs to Dragonsreach as quickly as they could, she marched up to the Reach doors and made her way in. The Jarl’s hall was everything a Nord’s should be. There was a roaring, large fire in the middle, lined with large tables stacked with food. Guards were positioned around every pillar and an old woman was sweeping the dark wooden floors.

“I only counsel caution. We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these,” a man standing to the Jarl’s left said, an Imperial, judging from his accent. 

“What would you have me do, then? Nothing?” a sturdy Nord man said, leaning in a large chair in the center of the hall. It was evidently Jarl Balgruuf, the Greater. He wore the typical finery of his position, but with small changes to display his status as a warrior. In fact, he was still wearing a sword hilt. 

“My lord, please. This is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act. I just--”

As Freya approached, the Jarl saw her and gestured for the man beside him to stop speaking. 

“Who's this, then?”

A Dark Elf woman in leather armor, wearing a permanent scowl, stopped in front of her.

“What's the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving any visitors.”

“Stay here,” Freya murmured to Bishop, “Let me talk to him.” He nodded, and directed Karnwyr toward a corner of the hall. The wolf was distracted by the food on the table and Bishop rolled his eyes and pulled him away into the darkness of the corner.

“I came from Helgen,” Freya said with as much authority as she could muster, “I have news about the dragon attack.”

“Well,” the Dark Elf woman relaxed, “that explains why the guards let you in. Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak to you personally.”

The Dark Elf took her arm and pulled her toward the throne. The Jarl inspected her.

“So, you were at Helgen? “ he questioned, “You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

“Yes,” Freya nodded, “The Imperials were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak. Then the dragon attacked, destroying Helgen,” she tensed, “And last I saw it was heading this way.”

“By Ysmir, Irileth you were right,” the Jarl said, addressing the Dark Elf. He turned to the man that was counseling him earlier. “ What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

“My lord,” Irileth said, “we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains…”

Proventus protested, The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We should not--”

“Enough!” the Jarl shouted, silencing the entire hall,. “I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Irileth said and quitted the hall. 

“If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties,” Proventus said and shuffled off, quietly. 

Freya was left with Jarl, his advisors absent. He bowed his head to her, slightly.

“Well done,” he said with a kind of fatherly encouragement, “You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. What is your name?”

“Freya.”

“And you are from where?”

“I was born in Riften.”

“Riften,” he mused, “Interesting.” He stood. “It’s late now, and I imagine you need some rest. Return to me in the morning, I may have something you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps. I will want you to speak to Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons.”

Freya nodded her head and the Jarl turned toward the staircases leading up the private halls of Dragonsreach. She felt her entire body relax and walked back to the front of the keep. Bishop was waiting, leaving against the wall.

“That went well.”

“Surprisingly,” Freya murmured, her voice weak from exhaustion.

Bishop frowned, “You need rest.”

“I do,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I need a bath.”

"You do smell."

She glanced at him, "So do you."

“Come on,” Bishop chuckled, and gestured to the door, “The Drunken Huntsman will have rooms. They always do. I know the innkeeper.”

“I bet you know the contents of the bar pretty damn well, too.”

Bishop smirked, “See, we’re getting along just fine, now. Let’s go.”

* * *

The inn was busy, filled to the brim with drunken townspeople and tavern girls. They left Karnwyr outside and he settled on the porch. A young Nord girl, pretty and blushing, stroked a lute in the corner and sang. Even though she despised crowds, there was something about an inn, crowded with bodies and poor intentions, that was familiar and comfortable to her. She eyed a table in the corner and gestured to Bishop.

“I’ll grab that,” she said and he nodded and headed for the bar. 

Freya sat in the corner and watched the people, unguarded in their stupor. There was a group of men leering at the bard girl and another group of warriors that looked like they were going to get into a brawl any second. Bishop leaned over the counter, clearly familiar with the bartender. They were both laughing in the way old friends often do. She eyed another young girl, who must have worked at the tavern. Young, pretty, and full figured, she was the kind of woman that drew a specific kind of attention anywhere she went. And, she seemed to be fully aware of that. She was wearing a revealing bodice and skirt, cinched together with leather. Without reservation, she was eyeing Bishop. Freya laughed to herself. 

He came over with two full tankards of ale and slid one across the table at her.

“Thank you,” she said, gratefully. She gestured to the girl, whose eyes were still trained on the ranger. “You have an admirer,” she said into her ale.

He glanced behind him and caught the girl’s eye.

“Yes,” he said, “I have a few of those.”

“Do you."

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, a teasing look on his face. He glanced at the bard, then back at her. “You gonna get up there and strum a lute, or what?”

“No,” she admonished.

“One day, ladyship,” Bishop grinned, “I’m going to get you to sing.” There was something suggestive in the way he phrased that that made her uneasy.

“You could talk to her, you know,” Freya looked at the girl, “I need to be up early to speak with the Jarl, but you--” she encouraged, “--you are more than welcome to have fun.”

“What makes you think I’m not coming with you to speak to the Jarl?”

Freya paused, “Because--” she started, “--well, I suppose... I mean, you certainly can. I just thought--”

“If he needs to talk to you about something important, I intend to be there.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms, “What if he asks me to do something?”

“Then you’re stuck with me until it gets done.”

She studied him a moment and he seemed to study her back.

“Why,” she questioned after a moment.

“I’m invested now,” he chuckled, “Need to see how this thing ends. And, if he sends you on some important errand, I need to see that it gets done without a problem.”

“What, like if I died?”

“Exactly.”

“Hmm.” The girl was still watching their table and Freya laughed under her breath. “You really have her attention.”

“And you are really interested in that fact.”

She looked over at him and that same smug expression was back.

“I’m not going to dignify that one with a response,” she rolled her eyes. 

Looking around, Freya couldn’t help but notice that Bishop wasn’t the only one receiving attention. There were several men within the tavern that kept looking over at her, quick glances, long stares, and everything in between. She frowned. 

“I really hate that.”

“What?”

“The way people stare.”

“You aren’t used to it by now?”

“Believe it or not,” she leaned over the table, lowering her voice, “it never gets easier being looked at like some sort of strange miscreation.”

“Alright, ladyship,” Bishop said, leaning into the table himself, “Here’s the deal. Maybe when you were a kid, everyone thought you were an alchemical experiment gone wrong. Maybe the other kids teased you, maybe you got terrorized by some brat named Hurgnar that liked to make you cry. But, trust me,” he lifted a brow and smiled suggestively, “that is not why people stare at you now.”

Freya examined his face a moment, trying to decipher what it was he was saying. Then, it hit her and she raised her eyebrows.

“Are you--” she questioned, “--are you flirting with me.”

“Ah, I am,” he leaned away from the table and crossed his legs, “She catches on.”

“I--” she laughed, still dumbfounded, “--I really don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Whether you like it or not, ladyship, it’s happening,” he said, taking another drink of his ale, “You may need to get used to it.”

“If it wasn’t for your wolf, I might have left your body in a ditch somewhere.”

“Oh, I would _love_ to see you try.”

She stood, still amused, “You may get the chance. Alright, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” Freya walked past him, shaking her head, and went over to the innkeeper to rent a room. The man was starting to grow on her. True, it felt like he was growing on her the way toxic moss took over entire trees. But, he was growing on her nonetheless. 


	4. Dragonborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon comes to Whiterun.

IV

**Dragonborn**

The next morning, now well-rested, bathed, and fed, Freya felt a little more human. She donned a simple pair of old leather grieves and the tunic she usually wore under her cuirass. Taking a moment to look at the glass in the room, she glanced at herself. Now clean, her long, thick, white hair felt lighter. It now reached her lower back. Picking it up and perching it on top of her head, she wondered if she should do something with it when meeting with the Jarl, but decided against it. Even if that was best, she would have little idea of how to arrange it.

She kept her weapons and exterior armor in her room at the inn and locked the door behind her as she had paid ahead, for several days. On her way out of the inn, she grabbed an apple from a bowl in front, left as a courtesy for the patrons. Taking a bite and walking into the warmth of the morning, she almost tripped over Karnwyr. He looked up at her, panting and shaking his thick tail. Kneeling down, she extended a hand and let him come to her. 

“He likes you.” She looked to her left and Bishop was standing at the end of the inn steps, watching her. “Do you know why?”

“My magnetic charm, I imagine.”

“You understand what he is, what he does. But most importantly--and this is the most important thing,” he walked over to the wolf and rubbed his ears, “You understand what he is _capable_ of doing.”

Freya stood, “We’re all capable of great and horrible things,” she murmured, “So in that respect, he’s in excellent company.” Freya took a final bite of her apple and tossed the core, making her way to Dragonsreach.

“If you want to come, ranger, then hurry up,” she called over her shoulder.

“But the view is so much better behind you!” he called back.

She didn’t even turn around at that remark. 

* * *

“Farengar,” the Jarl said, directing Freya to the wizard’s working quarters, “I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill her in with all the details.” With a gentle hand on her shoulder, the Jarl took his leave. Bishop did as he seemed to always do, and leaned on the wall in the corner of the room, making casual observations with his arms crossed. Farengar, a bookish man in mage’s robes, eyed him warily.

“Ignore him,” Freya said, looking over the tomes and maps stacked on the wizard’s desk. Everything, every last inch of parchment, was centered around dragons. 

“So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me? Are you a mage?”

Freya lifted a brow, “I have no training in magecraft, no.”

“Then he must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

“Sounds about right,” Freya said with a knowing smile. She had done mercenary work in the past and it never quite panned out the way the contractor wanted. “What does this have to do with dragons?”

“Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker -- perhaps even a scholar?” he said, tapping his head, “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasties, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons -- where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Right to the point, then. I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow -- a Dragonstone, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet -- no doubt in the main chamber -- and bring it to me. Simplicity itself. It would help a great deal.”

“How do you know the stone is in there?”

The wizard began to fidget, “Well, must preserve some professional secrets, mustn't we? I have my sources. Reliable sources.”

“I see,” Freya said slowly.

“Off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you, then,” he said, gesturing to her to leave his quarters, “The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it.

Freya quitted his chamber and he closed the doors, quickly, behind her. There was barely enough time for Bishop to sneak out himself. 

She looked warily at the door, “I don’t trust him,” she murmured.

“Neither do I.”

“You don’t trust anyone, Bishop,” Freya countered.

“True. It’s served me well so far.”

“We should--”

But she was interrupted when Irileth stormed in, shouting, “Farengar! Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby!” She forced her way through his doors and he stumbled out.

“A dragon? Here?! Where was it seen? What was it doing?” he seemed genuinely excited, as if he didn’t comprehend the significant danger he was in, that they were all in.

Irileth scowled, “I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun I don't know if we can stop it. Let's go. You two--” she turned to where Freya and Bishop were standing, “You come as well. We need all the help we can get.” 

They followed to the front hallway. A Whiterun guard, bleeding and breathing heavily, was being supported by another guard and speaking to the Jarl. 

“Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower,” the Jarl addressed the guard.

“Yes, my lord. We saw the dragon coming from the south. It was fast, faster than anything I've ever seen,” he cried out in pain.

“What did it do? Is it attacking the watchtower?” the Jarl demanded.

“No, my lord. It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life...I thought it would come after me.”

“Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for your wounds. Irileth--” the Jarl stood and addressed his housecarl. “Gather some guardsmen and get down there, now.” He walked to the front door and they all followed behind. 

“I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate.”

The reached the front door of Dragonreach and the Jarl put his hands on her shoulders, “Good,” he said, fear in his voice, “ _Don't fail me._ ” Irileth gathered some of the guards in the hall and headed outside. Jarl Balgruuf turned to Freya, with Bishop standing closely behind her. “There's no time to stand on ceremony. I need your help again. I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this dragon. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here.”

Freya nodded, “Yes, of course.”

She headed for the door and he grabbed her arm, “Wait! Tell Irileth. This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with.”

She confirmed with a look and ran out the door. As fast as her legs could carry her, she ran to the front and made a direct turn toward the inn.

“Where in the hell are you going?” Bishop yelled after her. 

“I can’t fight a dragon with my bare hands!” she cried, and ran inside. She equipped her cuirass, grabbed her bow and quiver and ran outside to meet the others. There were about two dozen guards, and Freya looked warily at the state of them, cowering in fear. 

“You need to keep Karnwyr here,” she ordered Bishop, “Trust me. Tie him up inside the walls. He’ll hate it, but it will keep him alive.”

Bishop, looking increasingly tense, nodded. “Have to agree with you on that one,” he said and ran back to the inn to ease Karnwyr inside and keep him there. When he returned, his face was darkened and his usual sarcastic candor was entirely absent. 

“Here's the situation,” Irileth shouted, addressing the ranks, “A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower.”

“What? A dragon?” a guard said, his voice young

“You heard right!” the Dark Elf shouted, “I said a dragon! I don't much care where it came from or who sent it. What I do know is it's made the mistake of attacking Whiterun!

“But Housecarl,” another guard said, “how can we attack a dragon?”

“That's a fair question. None of us have ever seen a dragon before, or expected to face one in battle. But she has--” she pointed to Freya, highlighting her in the crowd. “--come here!” Freya, cautiously, obeyed. She addressed the guards.

“Take cover in stone, anything that can protect you from flame. When it breathes, hide. There is no reason to take a shot when that happens. You can’t help bring a dragon down if you’re dead. The best thing we can do is shoot at its wings. Force it. Once it's on the ground, we have a chance--” the Dark Elf then pushed her aside and addressed the crowd again, herself.

“But we are honorbound to fight it, even if we fall. This dragon is threatening our homes, our families. Could you call yourselves Nords if you ran from this monster? Are you going to let me face this thing alone? The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me! Now what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?”

The guards all shouted and cheered, hungry for the glory and valor of killing a dragon Running past her, she was frozen for a moment, unable to move. Bishop grabbed at her arm, “We can’t be singled out behind them, easier to get picked off that way.”

“They don’t know what they’re facing,” she said softly, her eyes wide with horror. “They have no idea what they’re facing.”

In an uncharacteristic softness, he placed his hands on her shoulders, “You aren’t going to die today, ladyship. I’ll make sure of that.”

She blinked and turned to him, “I don’t care about dying, that isn’t the problem. You should stay. You—”

“Look, I’m not going anywhere,” he forced eye contact, “You can’t get rid of me that easily, I told you. You’re stuck with me.” 

Freya nodded, slowly breaking through the paralyzing fear, and followed the others.

* * *

When they approached the Western Watchtower, it was engulfed in flames. But there was no dragon to be seen, only the ruin that followed it. Freya looked over the damage and the fear that had paralyzed her before began to creep back into her bones. 

Irileth paused the battalion with her hand and turned to address them. 

“No signs of any dragon right now, but it sure looks like he's been here,” she shouted, “We've got to figure out what happened. Spread out and look for survivors! We need to know what we're dealing with—” and as she spoke, another guard came running towards them, singed and screaming.

“No! Get back! It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!”

“What happened here?”

The guard began to explain, but Freya could not hear him. There was this strange feeling in the air, something that felt alive. It was clear that the guard was speaking, but she only heard this profound, deafening silence. Until...

_Dovahkiin..._

She turned around, looking for the voice. 

_Dovahkiin… Hon Zu’u Ahrk Faas..._

“Did you hear that?” she asked Irileth, grabbing her arm and breathing heavily. 

Before she could answer, the injured guard screamed again, “Kynareth save us, here he comes again! He’s coming again!”

They looked up and saw a great, grey dragon, breathing fire and heading toward the watchtower, his wings making an ear-shattering sound as they beat.

“Here he comes!” Irileth screamed, “Find cover and make every arrow count! Aim for his wings, bring him down! Bring him down!

Freya readied her bow and ran inside the tower. Part of the staircase had collapsed, but she crawled over it to get to a better position. Close to the top of the tower there was an opening where she could get a protected visual of him. 

_Dovahkiin…_

Again, she heard the voice as if it was coming from inside her. 

_Hon Dii Zul… Dovahkiin…_

Covering her ears with her hands, she cried out. As she did so, the dragon passed overhead and the very earth felt like it was shaking. Outside, she heard the screams of guards as they tried to aim for the dragon’s wings, avoiding his fire and fury. 

Suddenly, she felt sick and weakened. Despite trying to remain standing, she leaned against the wall of stone. Her heart was beating so fast. 

_Tinvaak Wah Zu’u, Dovahkiin…_

At that moment, she realized that the voice was not coming from inside her. Not anymore. It was coming from the dragon himself. She couldn’t understand why the other soldiers didn’t seem to see that it was speaking to them.

Something in her, something mad, urged her to the top of the tower. She climbed over the broken stones until she reached the top of it. The winds of Skyrim blew her hair so it fell over her face, and she peered through it at the dragon that circled around them. Almost as if she was asleep, she walked to its edge and followed the dragon’s path of destruction. Looking down at the ground, she saw the guards firing arrows at the dragon’s wings and shouting. Irileth barked orders and somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, Bishop was looking up at where she was standing and screaming at her to move. 

Then, the dragon changed its course and came toward her. With its great, heavy wings, it flew in front of the tower and positioned front of her, holding itself in the air. Freya could not breathe. She could not move. All she could do was look in his eyes as he spoke.

_Alduin Lost Daal… Nu Dir…_

Then, as it opened its mouth and prepared to incinerate her, she snapped out of her trance. Barreling away from the flame, she prepared her bow and aimed for his eyes. Loosing an arrow, she struck his left eye and the dragon screamed in pain. It began to move away from her when she rolled the other direction and loosed a second, hitting its other eye. Blinded and frightened, the dragon flew into the watchtower. The weight of its body hitting it threw her off the top of it and into the stairway, hitting her head. Struggling to stand, she heard its screams as the guards proceeded to fire more arrows into its wings, bringing it down to the ground. 

WIth a great thudding sound, the dragon was grounded. 

“Get down here and fight, you son of a bitch!” Irileth screamed, plunging her sword into its neck. The other guards followed suit and soon, the dragon grew weak and began to bleed out. Freya stumbled out of the watchtower, dizzy and unable to stand straight. She saw as the dragon began to die, and she fell to her knees not far from the others. 

_Dovahkiin…_ it called out as it died.

Freya was shaking, confused and unsure. The pain in her head was immense. Irileth and the others were cheering and shouting in triumph when Bishop ran over to where she was kneeling and screamed at her.

"What in the _hell_ were you--”

Then, the body of the dragon began to change and shift. It’s skin was almost glowing, like hot embers in a forge. Slowly, it began to peel away like ash until there was nothing left but the ancient bones. 

“What in Oblivion…” Irileth breathed, when something else occurred. 

There was a rush, the sound of wind, and a force began to leave the dragon’s remains. White and gold light rushed toward Freya and consumed her entirely, as if she was absorbing it. Her eyes became a heated gold as it entered her body. All she could see was the light and she felt as though her blood was boiling over. After it was done and she was herself again, her entire body was in a cold sweat.

“What--” she started, “ _What is happening to me.._.”

One of the guards dropped his sword. 

“Dragonborn…”

Freya looked at her hands, still warm and glowing. 

“W-What?” she gasped, still too weak to stand. 

“In the very oldest tales, back from when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steal their power. That's what you did, isn't it? Absorbed that dragon's power?”

“I-I don’t know,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

In an instant, Bishop was standing next to her, helping her stand. His brow was so furrowed and the expression of concern was so evident on his face it almost looked like it could break him. “Alright, lean on me,” he instructed, “Come on, ladyship. Put your weight on me.” Nodding, she did so, and was able to get to her feet with him supporting her. “That's it,” he murmured, “Just lean on me.”

“There's only one way to find out,” one of the guards said, “You have to Shout. My grandfather used to tell stories about the Dragonborn. Those born with the Dragon Blood in 'em. Like old Tiber Septim himself.”

Freya steadied herself, breathing heavily. The back of her head was bleeding and the red was dripping down into the white of her hair. But, she tried to focus… focus on that power that had filled her, almost like her soul itself was being stirred. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to summon it. Suddenly, from the depths of her, came a feeling and a sound that was entirely foreign to her body. 

_“Fus!_ ” she cried out, almost as if she had vomited up the word. With it, came a force that knocked the guards off their feet, and knocked both her and Bishop to the ground. 

With that, the shaking returned. 

“By the gods,” one of the guards gasped, “You are the Dragonborn.”

Irileth gestured to the guards, “Help them to their feet,” she commanded. “I don't know about this Dragonborn business, but I am sure glad you're with us. You better get back to Whiterun right away. Jarl Balgruuf will want to know what happened here. Help her walk.” 

As she was assisted on the walk back to Whiterun, she periodically drifted in and out on consciousness. She thought at one point she heard another sound, another call for Dovahkiin. It felt human. One thing she was aware of, though, was that Bishop was holding her hand. 

* * *

When she woke up, she was somewhere in Dragonsreach. Opening her eyes slowly, she was greeted by the morning sun. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt too heavy to move with its own strength. As much as she could, she tried to readjust herself. Her body was sore, but she could move it fine. Nothing appeared to be broken or damaged beyond repair.

“Good,” a familiar voice said, “You’re awake.” She rolled her head to the side and noticed that Bishop was sitting in a chair next to her. As she moved, Karnwyr’s head popped up on the side of the bed and began to lick her face. “Alright, down,” Bishop commanded, “Hey. Down.” Sitting up, she rubbed at the back of her head. “Don’t mess with that,” he warned, “Leave it alone. I mean it.” 

“How long have I been here?” she asked. 

“Not long, several hours. You passed out on our way back to the city,” he murmured, his expression guarded. “We’ve had quite the last few days, you and I.”

Freya scoffed.

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, “Why do I get the feeling that this is going to be the norm for you,” he mused.

“If it is, scatter my ashes in Riften, when it eventually kills me,” she coughed. 

“That doesn’t really work for me,” Bishop cocked his head to the side, “I prefer you alive. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

She smiled at him, weakly, “I bet you are really regretting taking me to Whiterun.”

He shook his head, “Not quite yet. Keep up the suicide missions, though, and I might.” For a quiet moment, he studied her face. She couldn’t be sure but there seemed to be a genuine concern riddled there. 

Proventus walked in and noticed that Freya was conscious, “Ah, good. You're finally awake. The Jarl's been waiting for you. Let me take you to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What? A white haired woman with a special connection with dragons? I have never heard that before!" Yes, I know. Her vibe physically resembled Daenerys... and I promise you it won't be the last GoT-eque thing we got going on here. What can I say? I am a die hard fan and if you have the soul of a dragon, you probably are going to look a little different than everyone else around you, right?


	5. The Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya learns more about the Greybeards and gets into a little trouble in town.

V

**The Summons**

It was evening now. Dragonsreach was warmed by the light of the uproarious fire in the middle of its dining area, and Housecarls and Nobles alike were dining and talking. The Jarl’s steward had provided her with some clothes, albeit a little more lavish than she was comfortable with. The Jarl kept his late wife’s as memorabilia of her passing, and the steward had brought her the simplest of items she had worn, at Freya’s request. The back of her head was still bruised and sore, but the bleeding had long since subsided. She ran some cold water over her face to rid herself of the last of the dirt, ran her fingers through her hair, and put on the green linen dress that Proventus had left her. It didn’t fit as it should, Freya had a lankier athletic build rather than the healthy curves of a noblewoman and it was loose on her. Regardless she was comfortable enough.

Bishop had volunteered to wait in the hallway rather than go back to the inn. When she was ready, she left her room and found him sitting in one of the chairs staring at a book. Well, frowning at a book. 

“Are you reading? That’s something I never thought I would see,” she scoffed.

Bishop looked over at her, rolled his eyes, and placed the tome of the table.

“Passing time.”

Freya picked up the book and flipped through its contents, “ _A Dream of Sovngarde_?” she questioned, a pale brow arched. 

“I’m a Nord, you’re a Nord. Might as well indulge in a little good ol’ undeserved pride in our race. Well,” he crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, “You’re more of a Nordic _legend_ , really. But you get the point.”

“Right,” Freya murmured, smiling. It was a thin smile, polite, empty. Her thoughts were already elsewhere. The mention of what happened to her, what she was, caused a chill to ink its way up her spine and fear to clamp her insides. _Dovahkiin…_ the dragon had called to her before she even recognized what power she held. It could sense their kinship before she did. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. “You didn’t need to wait, you know,” she put the tome town, avoiding Bishop’s eyes, “I still have the room back at the inn and it's sitting there, unused. Besides, I need to speak with the Jarl and it's best I do it privately. He may have more information for me about this--” she looked away from him, stared into nothing as if somehow that would allow her more mental power to process what she was saying, “--this whole… Dragonborn thing.” Crossing her arms she tried her best to appear stable, but the world continued to feel like it was caving in on her.

Bishop cocked his head to the left, “Now, that was interesting.”

“What was?”

“You entirely disappeared, twice in the last two minutes. Must be another one of your talents. Got any other mythical, ancient gifts hidden under that dress?” He gave her a quick once over with a teasing look. 

She frowned, “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he chuckled, and stood, “That would be preferable, but no. I mean you clearly were somewhere else when you were talking to me. It’s all over your face. I wouldn’t gamble if I were you. Everything you’re feeling is on display front and center. Would _not_ end well.”

“Maybe I have just learned to drown you out,” she objected, but it was empty. He was right.

“Mmhm,” Bishop murmured. The sincerity in his eyes was flustering her but she couldn’t quite understand why. “Look... you’re overwhelmed, it's pretty damn clear. Anyone would be, considering. But you know,” he shifted in his stance, “you don’t need to bury it. You can talk to me.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, briefly. 

“Alright,” she said softly, “Well,” she cleared her throat, “thank you.”

Freya for a moment was very aware of him, physically. Maybe it was that he had been witness to the single most impactful moment of her life and that bonded them in some unique way, or that he seemed to genuinely want to offer a sense of safety. It could have been that she felt utterly raw and vulnerable, and of the men’s arms to offer her comfort she could certainly have done worse than his. When she had first met him, the impression she got was that he was a man that usually got what he wanted. That most likely applied to women, as well. She ruminated on this train of thought for a moment and it was apparent that Bishop was right: her thoughts were openly displayed on her face. And he saw it immediately. 

With a rueful smile, he sat back down in his chair, “Wish you could take me with you inside that mind of yours, ladyship, because I don’t think I would be opposed to wherever it was you just went.” 

She frowned, and crossed your arms, “You’re insufferable.”

He grabbed the book back from the and opened it back up, clicking his tongue at her. 

“And _you_ are late.”

She was, actually.

Throwing her hands in the air, exasperated and somewhat embarrassed, she turned on her heels toward the main hall of Dragonsreach. Bishop sat with an unabashedly triumphant grin on his face.

* * *

When Freya arrived, alone, the Jarl was sitting with his son Nelkir in deep conversation in a sitting area to the left. The boy looked nervous. She imagined he was asking his father about the dragons, the strange woman staying in their home, and the voices that echoed off the mountains this morning. There was a tinge of regret at the sight, for her. She was unsure if she should return to her room to not disturb them. Then, the Jarl looked over and gestured for her to take a seat across from him. He dismissed his son, who begrudgingly left the hall and she sat where the Jarl directed her. He appraised her with a father’s eyes. 

“How are you feeling?” he inquired.

“I should feel weak,” Freya said, thoughtfully, “but I don’t.”

He nodded, his eyes still searching hers. He looked at her dress and smiled, warmly. “That was my wife’s,” he murmured, “It suits you. I am glad to see it in use again.”

“I’m grateful, thank you.”

“Lorelai always looked the part she worked so hard to play,” he murmured. “Now, on the business. What happened at the watchtower?”

“I--” she started and stared at the floor. Try as she might, she had little way of explaining what exactly had happened to her. “Your men,” she started, “they seem to think I’m something... unique. That I have an ancient gift.”

“And do you?” Jarl Balruuf asked, directly. 

“When the dragon died, I absorbed some sort of… _force_ from it. I can’t explain it.”

The Jarl leaned back in his chair with a deep breath.

“So it's true,” he said at last, “The Greybeards really were summoning you.”

“The Greybeards?”

“Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World, east of here.”

“What do they want with me?”

“Freya,” the Jarl said, “You are the Dragonborn, uniquely gifted in the Voice -- the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um. They can teach you how to use your gift. This hasn't happened in... centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora. They are summoning you now.”

“Why?” Freya asked, the heat of the fire now feeling too warm.

“That's the Greybeards' business, not mine,” the Jarl said, leaning forward. “Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it.” He stood, “You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor.” Jarl Balgruuf directed her back to the living quarters. “I envy you, you know,” he said with a sigh as they walked down the hall, his hands behind his back and his expression thoughtful.

“Why?”

“To climb the 7,000 Steps again. I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that?”

“No, you had not mentioned that.”

“High Hrothgar is a peaceful place. Very disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before,” he trailed off, and shook his head, “No matter. Come to the main hall in the morning, at first light. I have something for you. Then, go immediately to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you, they have centuries of wisdom to depart. Learn more about this gift.”

“I had thought you wanted me to help Farengar.”

“No,” the Jarl shook his head, “For that matter, we will hire mercenaries. It is much more important than you go to the Greybeards, now. Your gift is too precious.”

He bowed to her, briefly, and left her at the door of her room. Freya walked in and sat on the bed. She didn’t bother to remove the dress or lay her head on the pillow. Letting her body fall back, she closed her eyes.

“Some gift,” she mumbled, as she fell asleep. 

* * *

In the morning, Freya changed into her own leather greaves and cuirass, slung her quiver and bow over her shoulder, and equipped her daggers. Typing her long hair back, she peered in the hallway. After she had come back from speaking with Jarl Balgruuf last night, Bishop was nowhere to be found. She assumed he had made his way to the inn. 

Approaching the hallway, she noticed that some of the nobles and other Housecarls were assembled in the throne room. Frowning, she entered its expansive wing and the Jarl stood when he saw her, rather formally. 

“Freya,” he gestured to her, “Please. Approach.”

Hesitantly, she did so. 

“Kneel,” he commanded.

As she kneeled, the Jarl addressed the court, as well as her. 

“You've done a great service to me and my city, Dragonborn. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant and it is my great privilege to grant it to you. I will notify my guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them to think you're part of the common rabble, now would we?”

The others politely laughed, and the Jarl gestured for her to stand.

“We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn.”

Freya felt incredibly exposed but bowed her head quickly.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, attempting a smile.

The Jarl beckoned for a woman to come forward. She was pretty, but covered head to toe in heavy steel armor. It was a stark contrast to the delicateness of her face.

“This is Lydia, I assigned her to you. As your Housecarl.”

Freya raised her eyebrows, “Well, then.”

“But perhaps you do not need another companion?” he asked, curiously, “I understand you may prefer privacy, in that regard. Lydia can wait here in the court, should that be better.”

Freya paused, narrowing her eyes. “I don't--” she started. Then she understood. “Oh,” she chuckled, “No. Absolutely not. That, uh, that isn’t--” she gestured to herself, “There’s no need for privacy, in that regard. Bishop is a--” she searched for the words, “--well, he’s an acquaintance, really. I barely know him.”

“In that case, you may want to bring Lydia with you.”

In other circumstances, the girl would be a valuable asset. But, considering that this was something of a pilgrimage, their lack of familiarity may make it difficult.

“When I come back,” she nodded, “That would be better. Thank you, Lydia, for offering your service. I will decline it for now.”

“As you wish, my Thane,” the girl said.

“Going to have to get used to titles, I see,” Freya sighed, bid them goodbye, and left the halls of Dragonreach. 

* * *

She went to the inn to inform the innkeeper that he could let out the room again, expecting to find Bishop. But, he wasn’t there. After a brief look around the city, she decided that if he wanted to leave, he was more than welcome too. Though, it infuriated her that he would merely leave without a warning or a word. She looked into the market square and did not find him there, either. Finally, she ducked into The Bannered Mare and saw a sight that always boiled her blood, no matter how many times she was witness to it. 

A young woman was in close proximity to a man, who appeared to be the bard. It also seemed that this proximity was not of her own doing. Her face was distressed.

Freya couldn’t resist. 

The woman had started to raise her voice, but she was weak in her protests. 

“Mikael, please,” she mumbled, “I really don’t want--.”

“Yes, you do,” the man said, his chest puffed out, “You just don’t know it yet.”

“I am saying no.”

Mikael grabbed at the girl’s shoulder, pulling her closer to him as she struggled.

“You’re saying no now, Carlotta. That will change. You just don't know your own mind.”

“I think the lady was pretty clear, bard,” Freya said, approaching them.

Mikael looked over at her, his eyes wild. Giving her a brief appraisal and finding her lacking, he grinned. 

“I can get to you in a moment, sweetheart. Dealing with her at present.”

“Mmhm,” she said, crossing her arms. She glanced at the girl, and back at the bard. “Alright,” she sighed, as she removed her weapons, “You. Me. Outside.”

He turned to her, “What?”

She removed her cuirass and began to roll up her sleeves, “We will handle this the Nordic way since you seem to like things rough.”

He scoffed, “ _You_ want to brawl with _me_.”

She said nothing. She just stood there, expectantly.

The bard looked around the tavern at the growing interest in the patrons and puffed out his chest again.

“Alright.”

“Eh, eh!” the innkeeper called, “Not inside, you lot. Don’t want blood all over my bar again, it took too long to clean last time! Go outside for your rabble.” 

Freya nodded to the innkeeper and walked outside. The bard, and a growing crowd, followed her. Rolling her shoulders, she walked in the middle of the market square and faced him in a fighter’s stance. 

“Let’s go, _sweetheart_ ,” she beckoned. 

The bard squared off against her with his fists ready for a brawl, extremely confident. With his right fist, he quickly made a pass at her. Freya dodged it easily, moving her head. Again he tried to hit her, now with his left. She took advantage of his offensive and dodged his left hook, spinning and situating herself behind him. Grabbing his wrist, she twisted him around. The bard screamed in pain and used his other hand to strike her again. This time, she dodged his fist and immediately hit him directly in the nose with her own. Blood gushed in torrents from his face and he keeled over. She grabbed his shoulders and kneed him in the groin and he buckled over fully, writhing on the ground and screaming in pain. Freya rubbed her sore knuckles and knelt down next to him, speaking softly and evenly in his ear. 

“If I ever see you speak to that girl, or pester any girl for that matter,” she leaned closer to him, “I will beat you so bloody you will never get the stains out of your pretty blonde hair. Are we clear?’

The bard, holding his nose, was about to speak. She placed a single finger to his lips to silence him.

“And don't dare challenge me again, or I will take your lute and shove it so far up inside you that it stops that infernal mouth from speaking at all,” she said and walked back through the crowd to the inn to grab her things. When she collected them, the innkeeper threw her an amused look. She saluted him and walked toward the door. When she opened it, Bishop was standing on the steps with an extremely high-spirited Karnwyr. 

“Oh,” she stopped, “You’re still here.”

“For the love of Talos, woman!” Bishop exclaimed, “I leave for _one morning_ and you incite violence in the middle of the town square?”

Freya brushed past him, “I thought you left.”

“No,” he followed behind, “I took Karnwyr outside the city to get some proper exercise.”

“You could have said something.”

“Missed me, I see.”

She glanced behind her, “We need to get to Ivarstead. Do you know it?”

“Yeah,” he met her pace and walked beside her, “Dinky little town. Bad ale, worse bards.” They passed Mikael, still bleeding and whining on the ground, “Not as bad as that one though, I bet.”

“I need to meet with the Greybeards at their monastery.”

“High Hrothgar?”

“Yes. They summoned me.”

“So _that’s_ what that was.”

“I suppose we could take the roads,” she murmured, “We’re going to need horses.”

“Traveling by road in plain sight when you are the most prominent conversation piece in all of Skyrim is a bad idea, ladyship.”

Freya frowned as they reached the main gate, “I doubt that'll be a problem.”

“Really,” Bishop laughed, signaling for the guards to open the entryway, “You are the first Dragonborn in hundreds of years, and a woman of all things. And--” he threw her a wry smile, “--you don’t exactly fit in, do you?”

They approached the stables. She glanced over at the main road and crossed her arms, “You make a good point. Maybe we should cut across the mountains, like before. Good thing you know the landscape well.”

“See, now. One more reason to be grateful I’m here.”

“And what are the other reasons?” she asked sardonically. 

He smirked, “Something for you to look at.”

“Ah,” she smiled, amused but not enticed, “I see.”

She approached the stable master and asked him about the price of horses. When she told him who she was, as well as her new status as Thane, he was willing to let the horses to them for their journey. Freya thanked him, graciously, and gestured for Bishop to enter the stables where they were being held.

“We can take the Bays,” she said, hoisting herself up onto one of the horses. 

“I really hate horses,” Bishop gruffed as he sat on the other.

“You are going to be grateful for one when we’re in the snow.”

“I also hate snow.”

“Are there things you don’t hate?”

“Oh, plenty. Warm fire, warm body, warm bed.” He cocked his head in her direction, teasing her, “Like yours perhaps.”

Freya shrugged, “Sorry, I’m frigid.”

Bishop laughed, “Good, ladyship. You win. Commendable wordplay, there.”

“Thank you,” she shifted in her seat, “I thought so too. Now, let’s go. We’re wasting light.”

“After you,” he gestured to the wild, empty landscape of Skyrim ahead of them. With that, they prompted their horses to a sprint and headed toward Ivarstead, Karnwyr happily running behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will start to incorporate some of the SR characters after this chapter, though altered a little bit. Hint, hint. Forsworn are next.


	6. The Raven of the Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya is taken by the Forsworn.

VI

**The Raven of the Reach**

The terrain of Skyrim was treacherous at best and fatal at worst. With its jagged rocks and unforgiving landscape, they had to be careful where they guided the horses. As they crossed streams and small fields, they made a quick pace of it. For most of the day, they rode in silence, with Bishop in front directing their steps, and Freya behind utterly lost in the turbulence of her own thoughts. She had come back to Skyrim because Cyrodiil no longer held its charms for her. After living her life on the very outskirts of what the law allowed, sometimes dipping her toes outside of it, she was tired and wanting to create something more stable. Skyrim was where she was born, where she was raised. It was in Skyrim that she got into her first fight, felt the first of many moments of grief that followed, had her first drink and her first lover. Despite how she began her life and where she was now, she would never escape the call of the winter winds and the ever-changing landscape. It was home. 

But now, it was threatened in ways that confounded her. The Civil War had ripped into the earth with such violence she wondered if there was ever a recovery. Ulfric and his rebellion had forged such a schism that even after the war it wouldn’t be mended. Forsworn had taken over fields and caves and their Briarhearts wreaked havoc on local populations and unlucky passerbys. And now, this. Dragons. Here was a terror that was ancient and unending. Somehow, she was responsible for it. She couldn’t help but feel that her birth was a mistake, perhaps the gift was meant for the baby born next to her and been misplaced. 

Yet, there was something in her blood that knew this had always been. Freya knew little about her family, she never traced her ancestry. When she left Skyrim, she went to Cyrodiil in hopes of finding more about her parentage. All she found was the random babbles of madmen, obsessed and driven by a hunger for a deeper knowledge. In her line, there was fanaticism and there was foolishness. All she knew was that deep in the recesses of her family, there were Dragon Priests, men dedicated to worshiping and serving the wills of Dragons as their gods and masters. It was a thought that often lingered in her mind, if there was some connection. But, it was dark outside now. Freya tried to calm her mind.

Freya and Bishop had developed a kind of domestic routine. During the day, they would speak very little and focus on the landscape and the distance. As it darkened, they would decide on a place to sleep, he would take Karnwyr to hunt, and she would set up the rest of the camp. The moon was bright, full and directly overhead. With the fire, it provided enough light for Freya to hone her archery skills. She removed her leather boots, to feel the grass under her feet, her cuirass and her black leather bracers so the cool of the night could reach her skin. She let her hair down and massaged her scalp with her fingers. Her bow was propped against a rock next to her bedroll. She picked it up with a couple arrows and searched around her for a good tree to act as a makeshift target. When she saw one far enough away to present a challenge, she shot an arrow into it. Now, the goal was to hit the same spot again and again, without fail.

Breathing deeply and evenly, she focused on the target in front of her. Taking inventory of the wind’s velocity, she let loose another arrow. She missed. Though she had hit the tree, it wasn’t close to what she had set as her target. Freya frowned. In his usual quiet way, Bishop approached the camp. Karnwyr carried a pair of rabbits in his mouth. 

“You better clean those,” Freya called out, equipping another arrow and readying herself to lose it. Bishop stopped on the way to the fire to watch, his arms crossed. 

Freya felt his presence there, watching, and it flustered her. When she shot the second arrow, it completely missed the tree. Bishop shook his head.

“You know you’re tensing,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t watching.”

The corner of Bishop's mouth twitched a bit, resembling something like a smile.

“No,” he said, walking over to where she was standing. “I see you do it on a regular basis. Not just now. It’s a bad habit, you need to break it.”

She lifted her bow again. “I have quite a few of those actually,” she murmured, and shot another arrow. This time, it did hit the tree but it didn’t fall exactly on her target. 

“Here,” Bishop gruffed and walked behind her. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he pushed down rather aggressively. “Do you see how much resistance there is in your shoulder when I do that? That’s because you’re tense.”

Freya shrugged her shoulder out of his hand, “That’s just because you’re touching me, I would be relaxed otherwise,” she argued. 

“So,” Bishop teased, “you tense when I touch you?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Just let me help you, woman,” he rolled his eyes and put his hand back on her shoulder. Pushing down again, she tried to relax this time. “That should be where it rests, naturally. You need to _retrain_ your body to recognize where it should rest. It won’t do it on its own. The shoulder is lifted, but that doesn’t mean it should be rigid. And, your elbow,” he murmured, taking the other hand and resting it underneath her elbow and forearm, “needs to be parallel to the ground. Right now you have it extended.” He gently pushed her elbow up so her arm was more akin to a straight line. “Now, breathe and release.”

She did so and much to her mortification, it was a better shot. 

“See, ladyship,” Bishop smiled in his usual self-satisfied way, “I told you.”

Reluctantly, Freya turned to him. 

“Alright,” she sighed, “Thank you.”

He nodded and walked back to the fire to skin the rabbits. Freya watched him walk away with a thoughtful expression on her face. Collecting her arrows from the tree, she continued to observe him as he worked on skinning them, Karnwyr happily eating the remains. They had started out with a tempered interaction, but she had come to like the man. In the strained reality of their daily lives, he offered a kind of distracting sarcasm and wit. In fact, she had spent more time with him overall than she had with anyone in the last several years and she had yet to want to kill him. Freya felt that there was a real potential there for an enduring friendship. There had been a time in her life when she had utterly destroyed an important friendship by becoming sexually involved. Sex was never just sex, and it complicated everything around it. She made a silent resolution not to allow that this time. If there was ever a moment she needed a friend she could rely on it was now, and she needed that infinitely more than a warm body in her bed. 

She sat down across from him and watched Karnwyr happily gnaw away at a raw bone. He may have been a wild animal, but he still had a sweetness to him that she had come to value. It surprised her how fiercely protective she had become of an animal that did not belong to her, that did not belong to anyone really. 

“Time to come back, ladyship.”

She looked up, “Hmm?”

“Where it is you are, time to come back and eat.” He handed her some of the cooked rabbit meat and she thanked him. His brow was furrowed and his expression weighted.

“You look like you have something on your mind.”

“That’s because I do,” he said, looking over at her. “Let me ask you something. How do you feel about being the Dragonborn?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, “At the moment, there’s nothing to feel about it. I am what I am and I don’t seem to have a choice in that.”

“You’re resigned to it.”

Freya crossed her legs and rested her head in her hands, watching the fire. “Most of my life has been at the mercy of other people’s poor choices,” she said thoughtfully, “This feels no different to me. Over time, you come to just… accept things Or, resign yourself to them. Maybe yours was the best word for it.”

“You were born in Skyrim, weren’t you?”

“Yes, in Riften.”

Bishop lifted a brow, “Riften?”

“Well,” Freya shifted and laid down on her back, staring up at the moonlight, “Let me rephrase. I was left in Riften. But, I have no idea where I was born.”

“Why Riften?”

She lolled her head to the side to look at him, “Because that’s where they dump unwanted orphans a majority of the time.”

“I see.” 

Freya returned her eyes to the sky, looking at the intoxicating beauty of the stars.

“Honorhall Orphanage,” she said slowly, “When I was of age, I left that place and decided one day I was going to burn it to the ground. Still want to.”

“Why were you being executed?”

Freya sighed and closed her eyes, “I was trying to cross the border into Skyrim unlawfully and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Could be the right place and the right time.” She opened one eye. “Helgen was attacked by a dragon. Without that, you may have never known what you are.”

She leaned on her side and looked at him. 

“Maybe,” she breathed.

“But, more importantly,” he flashed a grin, “You would have never met me.”

“Well, when you put it that way it was _definitely_ the wrong place at the wrong time,” she snorted.

“I _was_ right though.”

“Oh, were you.”

“I said I would get something out of you, and I did. I now know more about you than you know about me. I kind of like the imbalance.”

Freya yawned and rolled over, “That may be so, but it won’t last long.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because you never shut up.”

Bishop chuckled, “Goodnight, ladyship.”

* * *

The next morning they set out early, continuing east toward Ivarstead. There was a chill in the air, more than usual. It set Freya on edge and she couldn’t help but feel that there was something hidden in the thick of the trees, lurking in the shadows and hiding in the mist. They passed over some smaller hills and found themselves in a clearing. Freya felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and she stopped in the middle of a field. Silently, she looked around at the edges of the trees. There was movement and it didn’t appear to be animal. 

Immediately, she put her fingers in her mouth and whistled at Bishop, gesturing to a rock enclave up the hill. She kicked her horse and sped up the hill as fast as possible and Bishop followed. When they were out of sight, she jumped off the bay and pressed herself against a rock face, peering over its edge to the clearing.

“What did you see?” Bishop asked quietly. 

“I don’t know,” she breathed, “Something feels wrong.”

Freya was right. As she spoke, over a dozen Forsworn made their way toward the clearing from behind the trees. They appeared to be led by a young woman, who was looking for them. Freya cursed under her breath. 

“They saw us,” she flexed her fists.

“Looks to be about fourteen.”

“About, yes.”

“Fourteen against two. I like those odds.”

“Bishop,” Freya warned and he held up his hands in surrender. She looked around where they were sequestered and cursed again. “That clearing is the only way out of this canyon. If they move in our direction…” she trailed off as she watched them. It was strange. They didn’t appear to be acting in the way she had been accustomed to seeing from the Forsworn. They were organized. In her past dealings with them, it was like fighting against the ravings of a madman: out of control, confusing, and chaotic. Freya was fascinated with this, despite her growing terror. 

Until, there was another sound that awoke a new fear in her. Through the clouds came a deafening roar, followed by the unmistakable shape of a dragon. 

Freya looked up, “Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

The dragon behaved as the other had. It seemed to sense that its kin was near and she heard its voice call out in a thundering bellow. 

“ _Dovahkiin!_ ”

Readying her bow, she looked up where she heard the voice. Great, thrashing wings created such a force in the air that, like wind, it threw her hair in her face. The Forsworn had also taken notice of the dragon and their own archers were readying their weapons as the woman directed their fire. The dragon circled the clearing, speaking fire from its mouth. The areas of the clearing where there was still grass began to catch fire and spread. Smoke billowed and soon Freya found herself choking on it. 

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” the dragon called again, “ _Hi Nis Qah Nol Zu’ul…_ ”

It locked eyes on her and made its way to wear she was standing, circling around the top of the canyon and forcing her to run into the clearing to avoid the impending flames. Surrounded by Forsworn, who were luckily distracted by the dragon, Freya looked for Bishop but saw nothing. The smoke, flame, and chaos obstructed her vision. As the Forsworn archers took down the dragon, Freya felt a rage that she hadn’t felt before toward it. Without thinking, she sheathed her bow on her back and ran toward it. It was bleeding badly and weakened and she approached it from its side. Running as fast as she could, she hoisted herself onto its neck and held firm to its scales and it writhed around under her. Struggling to hold on, she inched her way toward its head where two large horns were erected. Grabbing hold of one to steady herself, screaming at the top of her lungs, she took her daggers and plunged it into the back of its skull. The dragon bellowed in pain as she did it again and again until it ceased to fight back. It tipped and swayed until it fell over, throwing her from the top. She cried out as she was flung from its back and rolled on the grass next to it. 

Drenched in its blood and shaking uncontrollably, she could barely stand. The shrieks and screams of the Forsworn echoed in her ears. The dragon had tossed her right into the middle of their scouting party. Her ears were ringing and her vision blurred from being tossed so abruptly and hitting the ground so hard. Then, that glow appeared. The dragon’s skin began to shift and tremble and wilt off of its bones like the petals of a rose. As it did, the force materialized like it had before. Freya tried to pull herself away from it, inching her way in the dirt, but it was of no help. The force found her, took over her body. Her soul absorbed the dragon’s and there was nothing she could do to stop it. It was easier this time, but it still left her feeling like she was outside of her own body. 

After it happened, she became aware that the sounds of the Forsworn were all around her. Lifting her eyes, she saw several pairs of bare feet. Rolling as fast as she could, she tried to run. But, two men grabbed her arms and held her down. Freya fought them, kicking and screaming. One of the men punched her in the stomach to silence her and she almost vomited with the force. Still struggling, but weak, the men tightened their grip on her. Then one grabbed her face and forced her to look forward. The woman was standing in front of her, a satisfied smile on her face. 

“Now,” she said coolly, “what do we have here?”

Freya lashed out at the woman, but the men were too strong. The woman was not phased by the outburst, she never moved. Placing a hand under Freya’s chin, she examined her. 

“Seems the gods favor us today, Anu,” she said, glancing at one of the men. He was tall, taller than the others, and decorated with war paint. 

“The Dragonborn,” the man said, looking her over, “Much smaller than I thought she would be. Disappointing.”

Robin released Freya’s face and looked at the men holding her, “Bring her to the Raven of the Reach. Alive.”

With that, the men shoved a gag in Freya’s mouth and a black bag over her head. She cried out, but she had no idea if Bishop was even alive to hear her. 

* * *

With a blinding light, someone pulled the bag off of Freya’s head. She barely had time to adjust to the light when she realized her wrists were bound behind her back. There were two men there, different men, that picked her up and proceeded to walk toward what she saw was a small river. Abruptly, they set her down and forced her into the water and submerged her. Freya kept screaming, but her throat was raw and the gag muffled her. One of the men then dragged her out of the water as she kicked and cried out. They continued to drag her, cold and soaked to the bone, into their village. Past huts filled with Forsworn women and children, roaring fires and a fenced in elk stable. The hut on the far end of the village was larger and more ornate than the others, and it appeared they had even installed a floor to it. 

When they reached inside the hut, the men dropped her at the feet of another man whose back was turned to her. That same woman was beside him.

“There we are,” she smiled and gestured to where Freya had been dropped, “a gift, little brother. Maybe worse for wear, but she’s alive and now--” she nodded to the men to leave, “--no longer reeks of blood.”

Freya glanced around her but saw no escape. Forsworn guards were posted at every entrance of the hut. The man glanced over at his sister and sighed. 

“Do you remember nothing mother taught us, Robin?” he said. His voice was quiet, subdued, and surprisingly gentle, “Talk first, stab later.”

“And how is that working out for us?” she snapped. The man raised a single eyebrow and she cowered back immediately. Turning around, he faced Freya. Whoever he was, he was young. No older than she was. He was unlike any Forsworn she had seen in all the years she spent in the Reach. His features were fine, elegant, and open. Red war paint covered his eyes and inked down his face to his neck. Silently and with incredible focus, he stared at Freya. She met his gaze without fear, she was fueled with anger. Slowly, the man walked toward her, bent down and removed her gag. Immediately, Freya spit in his face. The man did not flinch. He closed his eyes, held out his hand, and a guard handed him a linen cloth. He wiped his face and returned his gaze to her.

“I suppose I deserve that,” he murmured.

“You deserve a lot more,” she snarled, “but that’s all I can manage at the moment.”

“Ah,” he said, inspecting her face, “We have heard stories that a Dragonborn had been summoned. Looking at you now, I believe them. There is fire in your eyes. Though, no account of your beauty has quite done you justice.”

Freya sneered, “If you are trying to charm me that boat has long since sailed, wrecked and degraded beyond repair.”

The man smiled, “So, Skyrim’s savior has wit,” he said standing to his feet and looking down on her. “Admirable, considering the weight on your shoulders. Though I haven’t yet introduced myself, I apologize. I am Cael. Like you, I am known by other names. The Raven of the Reach, Chieftain of the Rudahan--”

“Don’t give a damn. Now, the man who was with me,” Freya asked, “Where is he?”

Cael looked over at a guard and beckoned with a single finger. Two other men came into the camp, with Bishop in tow.

“You _son_ of a--” he started, when another guard punched him in the stomach to silence him. They tossed him on the floor on the other side of the hut. Freya felt her entire body relax. It seemed that, though battered and bruised, he was okay. Groaning, he looked over at her and his own form seemed to ease at the sight of her. “You’re okay,” he croaked, almost as if he was convincing himself. She nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered shakily, blinking back tears, “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

The chief watched their exchange with interest. 

“The wolf,” Freya demanded, “Where is he?”

“He’s fine,” the Forsworn answered lazily, “The children are playing with him.”

“Look,” she begged, “Whatever it is you want with me, fine. Just let them go.”

Cael cocked his lead to the left, “You believe we are going to kill you.” Freya said nothing. He took in a deep breath and gestured for the guards to stand her up. “Remove her restraints,” he ordered, and they did so. As soon as they cut her bindings, Freya rubbed the raw flesh of her wrists and winced. “I am sorry for that,” Cael murmured as he leaned on a table behind him.

“Are you equally sorry for the kidnapping, gagging, and near drowning?”

“My men do what they have always known to do. I am trying to change that.”

“Doesn’t seem in line with your traditions.”

“Would you like me to scream obscenities at you, naked, spinning in circles? For that is what your people believe the Forsworn to be.”

“You’ve done a poor job in proving otherwise,” Freya snapped.

“I do wonder,” Cael mused, “Where you align yourself.”

“And why is that?”

“The outcome of this war will have a great effect on our people. I can only imagine that whomever you stand behind will gain an advantage. I would like to know who that will be.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Being tied to the fate of the world comes with the burden of choice, Dragonborn,” Cael said, “whether you like it or not.” The chief approached her and stood too closely. Freya felt vulnerable at his proximity. Cael looked directly in her eyes, almost encouraging. “There is another choice, if you have the courage to take hold of it. Freedom . The Nords claim that they fight for their freedom but they roll over like dogs and grow lazy and weak as soon as they achieve it. They don’t deserve this place. My people are not what you have been led to believe,” he said, walking around her in a circle, “We share the same ancestors that form your unique soul. If you stepped forward in boldness, you could help us become the rulers we once were.”

“I know your kind,” Freya said darkly.

“And yet, you are listening to me without reservation.” 

Freya shifted in her stance. “You intrigue me,” she said guardedly. 

“Do I,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” he mused, “And why is that?”

“Your table,” she explained. Cael raised a brow. “You have an extensive collection of books, and I assume you’re literate.”

“I am.”

“Uncommon for your people.”

“That is something I seek to improve.”

“I see.”

He smiled at her, “You approve.”

She frowned, “I’m surprised.”

Cael stopped behind her and whispered to her, “Look beyond what you think you know. You will find Skyrim has changed.”

He walked over to the table he had been leaning on before and picked up what appeared to be an Amulet of Dibella. He turned, approached her again, and placed it around her neck. Without provocation, he forced the same proximity that he did prior. Freya did not break eye contact. 

“We will release you. But, before you go, take this. Consider it a token from a savage that offered you something more. I very much doubt you need its power but it is as unique and captivating as you.”

She was surprised by his civility. While she could not account for the rest of the tribe, he was a living, breathing dichotomy. Forsworn were known to be base and animalistic, but he was not. Cael looked over where Bishop was being held and chuckled. 

“Your companion is displeased with this. Be wary, Dragonborn,” he said over his shoulder as he walked back to the table and looked over the map that was resting there, “Jealousy is a vulgar trait.”

Bishop started to laugh, a rough wheezing sound. “Jealous,” he coughed, “I haven’t given two shits since you started talking, Forsworn.”

Robin, with her hands on her hips, glanced at her brother, “We would be doing the girl a favor if we cut off his head, Cael.”

“Oh, _please_ try it,” Bishop said, struggling to his feet, “I would like nothing more than to get rid of his whore.”

The same man as before, Anu, stepped up to Bishop enraged, “Watch your mouth. Robin is his sister. Speak of her like that again and I cut your tongue out myself.”

“Wha--Sister?” Bishop choked, “That’s his _sister_ ? I’ve seen tavern wenches wearing more than what she--no, what all of you _combined--_ have on.”

It was typical of the Forsworn to wear very little. Robin had only the bare minimum covered. The men followed suit with their own furs. Freya grew up in the Reach, it was a sight she was used to by now.

“Bishop, shut up,” she warned.

Robin stepped over to him, “If you have a death wish, Nord, I can oblige you.”

“Enough! All of you!” Cael commanded, growing impatient. “As for you, keep your eyes off my sister or I will rip them from your skull.”

Bishop chuckled, darkly, “Your sister is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment. But, go ahead. Give it a try. It will be the last mistake you ever make.”

“It was a mistake to remove your gag at all,” Cael rolled his eyes and waved at the guards to cut Bishop’s bindings. “You may go.”

Freya was wary but more than ready to leave this place.

“Think of what I said, Dragonborn,” Cael called to her, “You are burdened with choice and one day you will have to make it.”

She paused and glanced back at him. Then Bishop rushed past her, grabbing her arm, and dragging her toward the end of the camp. He kept a firm painful grip on her, whistled for Karnwyr, and didn’t stop until they could no longer see the camp. After they were at a safe distance he turned to her and grabbed her shoulders, his eyes wide and furious. 

“ _What in the hell were you doing_.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The Forsworn. What do you think you were doing in there?”

Freya frowned. “Watch yourself, ranger. I had it under control.”

“Oh, please. You were listening with baited breath to every word he said like it was a goddamned bedtime story. Do you think if you weren’t the Dragonborn he would spare you from some, bloody, savage ritual?”

“Probably not.”

“ _Probably_ not? You would be skinned, raped, and discarded by now. He knew what he was doing and you _let_ him do it.”

“I let him speak,” Freya said, defensively. 

“Oh, right. Because he _intrigued you_ ," he mocked.

“He’s a Forsworn Chieftain attempting to civilize his tribe. That is pretty damn intriguing. He isn’t a Nord but he respected what I am.”

“Exactly,” Bishop crossed his arms and scowled at her, “You let him speak because you liked what he said to you, with his honey-coated dagger of a tongue. You have the power to Shout, you could have razed that whole goddamned hut to the ground and ran, but you didn’t. I have to wonder why. What, is it because you like being worshiped? He gave you a present and stroked your ego so you figured, ‘This guy is okay!’ You just sat there and _listened_ like a pining little girl!” 

Freya slapped him across the face as hard as she could. He flexed his jaw at the impact and stared at her. She was breathing hard now.

“You’re right, I should have run,” she said through gritted teeth, “and I should have left you there with them.”

For a moment, they both stood without breaking eye contact. Freya, her own breathing finally beginning to slow, crossed her arms and looked over the desolate horizon of where they were standing now. When she was angry, truly angry, she tended to tear up. It made her feel weak. Now, she focused intensely on not allowing herself to cry. 

Bishop rubbed his jaw. 

“Okay,” he sighed after a moment, “I’m sorry. I earned that.”

Freya glanced over at him, her eyes wide and angry. 

“Yes. You did.”

He sighed. “Look,” he said, taking a tentative step toward her, “You don’t seem to recognize your own influence here. Politically. Where you go, the people of Skyrim will follow. Imperials, Stormcloaks, Forsworn, Jarls. Everyone is going to want something from you and they are going to lie to you to get it.” She studied him for a moment and uncrossed her arms. Bishop ran a hand through his hair. “The best I can offer you is that I never will. Not going to flatter you, lick your boots, tell you that you’re a saint. As far as I can tell, you’re completely insane and that is more than fine with me. And if anything happened to you, I--” he started, frowned, cleared his throat, “--well, the fate of the world rests on you so it would be an issue, wouldn’t it? So, don’t be so generous with who you trust.” 

“I see,” Freya murmured, “Do you know what all men want, Bishop?”

He frowned, “Quite a social pivot you just made there.”

She cocked her head to the left, “The _jest_ is usually that all men want is a bellyful of mead and a pretty girl opening her legs. But, that is not what all men _truly_ want.” Freya looked at him pointedly, “What all men truly want is power.”

“And what in Oblivion does this have to do with what I just said to you?”

“I know all men have their own selfish motivations and you must think I am incredibly stupid to assume that I blindly trust _anyone_ ,” she continued, “Including you.”

He raised his eyebrows, “You don’t trust me.”

“And what, you trust me?” she gestured to herself. 

Bishop paused a moment and nodded, “Fair point.”

“Bishop," she sighed, “You and I both know that trust is earned slowly and with excruciating effort. So,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away, “don’t insult me by assuming I think differently or next time it will be more than a slap in the face."

"Is that a threat?" he yelled.

"Absolutely," she called back. 

Bishop stood there a moment, watching her leave, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. After a moment, Freya turned around and walked back.

“I, uh,” she started, “I actually have no idea where we are.”

“I know,” he chuckled, “Luckily, I can figure that out.”

Immediately he turned to his left and whistled for Karnwyr to follow, and Freya wished they still had the horses.


	7. The Greybeards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya begins her training with The Greybeards and learns more about the other Dragonborns before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I recognize that Ustengrav is closer to Morthal than to Windhelm and this is taking liberties with the map, but for story purposes I wanted to start the ball rolling on the Civil War discussions (and personal discussions) with Ulfric and Tullius, etc. as those are going to be significant to Freya’s story arc and I need to start them before she gets to Solitude. I try to stay within the bounds of what is lore-friendly and canon in everything I do, but since this is just a ruin location I figured it was okay. Don’t come for me! LOL.
> 
> P.S. If you are familiar with the SR mod, you know the hilarity that ensues in Windhelm, I will be changing a lot of it (and including some song links) to be more within a lore-friendly framework =but it is still going to be a barrel of laughs and Very Drunk Freya will be involved.

VII

**The Greybeards**

****

After several tense hours of Bishop retracing the steps of their captors, they finally found the main road. Before evening hit, they arrived in Ivarstead. It was a small town, seated at the foot of the mountain. The road led them first to a small farm, along the town border. Freya watched the occupants stack the last of the crops they had harvested that day into oxcarts, wiping their brows. She envied the simplicity of their lives. The road continued into the center of the town. The few guards that were stationed there eyed them warily and Freya regretted not wearing her cowl as they approached. 

Vilemyr Inn was small, with only three rooms in total. When they entered it, Freya scanned it's patrons. There were no more than four or five in the hall, several of which were couriers making their rounds. She doubted any of them were townspeople. A woman, the innkeeper, smiled at them. Moving out from behind the bar and slapping a cloth over her shoulder she greeted them at the door.

“Welcome,” she said, sounding exhausted but enthusiastic, “I’m Lynly, the innkeeper.”

Freya opened her mouth to speak when Bishop interrupted her. 

“We need two rooms.”

“It’s a small inn,” Lynly explained, “At the moment, we only have one.” 

“You have nothing else?”

"Well, we have a small storage room in the bathing area but it might be a bit uncomfortable with all the produce I have stacked in there. I can set up a cot.”

“That’s fine,” Bishop agreed, “We’ll take that with a reduced price for the inconvenience and the single room. Both for one night. Can that room be well secured?”

“Yes,” Lynly said warily, eyeing them both, “Since we have so many travelers come through here, I put locks on all our doors.”

“Good, thank you.”

“I will, uh, I will show you the rooms then and give you the keys.”

Bishop nodded and turned to her, resting a hand on her arm, “I'll take care of this, go take your bath,” he ordered and briskly walked toward where the innkeeper was standing, leaving her alone. 

There was, as the gods would have it, a young woman sitting in the corner eying them. When she was satisfied that Freya was not a threat, she closed in on Bishop. 

“Incredible,” Freya snorted as she headed toward the bathing area of the inn, leaving him to deal with whatever strange encounter he would find himself in now. 

Because the inn was so small, the bathing area was conjoined to the main hall and entirely lacked a door. It seemed that all there was to shield her from the prying eyes of strangers was a large, leatherbound divider. Freya pushed it as close to the bath as she could, blockading herself in a small corner. She could still hear pieces of the conversations of the patrons outside the room from where she stood. In the corner on a small stood were bathing linens and some soaps. Shielding herself behind the divider, Freya removed her armor slowly and with great effort. Her body was extremely sore, bruised, and begging for relief. In her satchel, she had stuffed the dress that Jarl Balgruuf had provided. It was at least something clean. In the morning, she would have to rinse out her underclothes before they went up the mountain. They were starting to smell. Glancing over the top of the divider and satisfied with her privacy, she removed the rest of her clothes and sat in the bath. The water was not hot, it rarely was. But, it wasn’t cold and she was more than happy with that. 

Lathering some of the soap between her hands, she washed her face and her hair. Dipping underneath the surface, she began to rinse off. As she was under, she heard aggravated voices. When she came up, she realized that Bishop was arguing with someone outside the door, but she only heard the tail-end of the conversation. It sounded like a woman.

“Consider it given,” he said.

“You really would prefer to sleep in a damn storage closet?” the woman scoffed.

“Yes, and you are starting to try my patience.”

“Look, if you change your mind--”

“I won’t. Now get out of my face, parasite.”

“But I--”

“ _Get. Out_.”

Freya pressed against the side of the bath nearest the door and heard footsteps coming closer to her. She sank lower in the water. 

“Watch it,” she warned, “Keep it on that side.”

“Don’t worry, ladyship, your virtue is safe,” Bishop laughed but he sounded tired.

They sat there in silence, with only the sounds of the water when she moved.

“What was that?” Freya finally asked. 

“What was what?”

She rolled her eyes so hard they almost got lost in her skull, “Bishop.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Freya stood up, grabbed a linen and dried herself. Her hair still wet, she rang it out in the water and then pulled the dress over her head. 

“Tell me.”

“Being nosy isn’t very ladylike.”

“That was that tavern girl?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I said no.”

Freya, holding her things, came around the corner. “Fine, then,” she conceded, “But just know I’m a little vexed that you neglected to warn me of the dangers when traveling with you.”

Bishop raised a brow, “Such as?”

“Being accosted by women whenever we enter a goddamn inn.”

Bishop laughed, “Must be my animal magnetism.”

“Strange,” she mused, walking to the adjoining single room, “I must be immune.”

“Maybe not.” She lifted a brow at him. He smirked, “You sound quite jealous.”

Freya threw him a look that would strike fear into the hearts of most men. He didn’t falter. If anything, his smirk intensified. 

“It’s a small town,” he shrugged, “I imagine that girl propositions any man that walks in here. Probably bored out of her mind.”

Freya held out her palm and Bishop frowned.

“What, you want to hold hands now like some sort of bonding exercise?”

“I need the room key, you insufferable man.”

“Ah,” he said, “Right. Here,” he handed her the key and leaned on the door, eyeing her.

“Thank you,” she said, shutting the door behind her, forcing him to move.

“No lute tonight, huh?” she heard muffled on the other side.

“Goodnight, Bishop,” Freya chuckled.

* * *

The morning was bright and clear. They rose at dawn and made their way toward the path heading to High Hrothgar. The Seven Thousand Steps, it was called. As they ascended, it grew colder and the snow thicker. Karnwyr seemed happy to bound ahead of them, chasing white foxes and barking continuously into the icy wind.

“Throat of the World,” Bishop huffed, squinting up at the top of the mountain, “I wonder what’s up there, hidden in the clouds.”

As they mounted the path, there were way shrines that marked the way alongside it. Freya stopped at the first to look at the inscription.

“ _Before the birth of men_ ,” she read, “ _The Dragons ruled all_ _Mundus_ _. Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs. For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land_ …”

She looked up the path and saw the next and hurried towards it, wiping snow from its face to see the letters more clearly. 

“ _Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus. The Dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then, and had no Voice…_ ” Freya took a step back and held herself. “Men were weak then,” she repeated to herself, “and had no Voice.”

They continued on their way, without rest save when Freya stopped to read the other emblems. As they reached the mountain top, she saw another. Freya approached the wayshrine, Bishop standing behind her

“ _For years all silent_ ,” she read, “ _the Greybeards spoke one name. Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar. They blessed and named him Dovahkiin. The Voice is worship. Follow the Inner path. Speak only in True Need._ ”

Freya went silent, her brow furrowed.

“Are you alright?” Bishop asked after a moment. 

“No,” she breathed, “Tiber Septim himself made the same journey I am making now,” she shivered, “For the same purpose.” She looked at him. “I don’t know who I am in the midst of all this. It feels like--” she searched for the words, “--like being dragged under the current of a raging tide, grasping for a hold and never finding it…” she trailed off.

Bishop said nothing, there was nothing to say. He allowed her the silence she needed. Then, they continued up the mountain to the end of the path. 

* * *

When they approached High Hrothgar, Freya felt as though her lungs collapsed as she glimpsed it ahead. It was ancient and beautiful and sacred. She found herself overwhelmed at the sight of it. Taking a deep breath, she walked up one of the staircases toward the massive, heavy doors of the monastery. Before she pressed her weight against it to open it, she stood there a moment, readying herself. She closed her eyes and pushed the door open.

Inside, the monastery was cold and grey and utterly silent. The door closed behind her with a bellowing thud and it echoed in every hall. Bishop whistled. 

“Place could use some color.”

Freya held out a hand. 

“Wait here,” she murmured and walked down the hallway toward the light that lingered ahead of her. The stone walls were decorated with lettering she didn’t recognize and different tapestries that told the stories of the souls of Skyrim. As she approached the light, Freya realized that the Greybeards were already waiting for her. Her breath caught in her throat.

They were all old men covered in aged, grey mage robes. One walked forward and bowed to her, slightly. She returned the gesture, her breathing shallow. 

“So,” the man said, his voice calm and ancient, “a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age.”

“I am answering your summons,” Freya said as confidently as she could muster.

The Greybeard frowned, “We shall see if you truly have the gift.” He held out his arms, as if he was welcoming her. “Show us, Dragonborn,” he called out, “Show us the strength of your Thu’um.”

Freya flexed her fist and closed her eyes, drawing the power from deep within her, mustering the power of the Voice to come forward and spill out into the air.

“ _Fus,_ ” she cried and the impact caused the Greybeards to stumble backward. She took a step forward, suddenly worried that she had hurt them. The man who spoke to her before stumbled to his feet and looked at her with wonder in his old eyes. 

“Dragonborn,” he said with a profound respect, “It is you.”

She heard the echoes of Bishop’s footsteps behind her with an agitated Karnwyr in tow. Her Shout no doubt alerted them. Freya glanced back at him and gave an encouraging nod and he relaxed. They both settled in the recesses of a corner, watching the exchange closely.

The Greybeard approached her with great warmth, “Welcome to High Hrothgar,” he bowed, “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. In this age, at the turning of the tide, what do we call you?”

“Freya.”

“We do not allow Outsiders here,” Arngeir said, eyeing Bishop.

“He’s a friend, Master,” she smiled at the ranger, “I need him here.”

“Alright, if it is what you need. Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come?”

“I am answering your summons.”

“There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon the mortal kind. Here we commune with the voice of the sky, and strive to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves. We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you.”

“What would you have me do?”

The old man smiled, “We can show you the Way, but not where it leads you.” Freya nodded and Arngeir placed a withered hand on her shoulder, “Do you have the strength to learn, or do you need to rest from your journey?”

“No,” Freya said, her fists clenched, “I’m ready.

“Good,” he said, and walked to the center of the open hallway, circled by the other Greybeards. “You have shown that you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen. Without training, you have already taken the first steps toward projecting your Voice into a Thu'um. Not let us see if you are able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the tongue of dragons. Your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power. Master Einarth will now teach you _Ro_ . _Ro_ means "Balance" in the dragon tongue. Combine it with _Fus_ \-- "Force" -- to focus your Thu'um more sharply. Master Einarth will allow you to tap into his understanding of _Ro_.”

Einarth stepped forward and spoke the word into existence, burning the Dragon Tongue letters into the floor. Freya was unsure how to proceed. Arngeir gestured for her to step forward toward the burned section of the floor and she did so. Einarth bowed to her. When he did, there was a surge of whispers in her mind and the feeling of being pressed into the floor. After came that similar overwhelming light that accompanied the absorption of the Dragon Soul. It ceased and Freya caught her breath. She was suddenly aware that she had full knowledge of Balance and she summoned it from deep within herself. 

“ _Fus Ro_ ,” she shouted, her Thu’um more powerful than before. It reverberated off the walls and knocked even Bishop off his feet. She looked at the Greybeards expectantly. 

“You learn a new word like a master,” Arngeir said in awe, “You truly do have the gift. Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn. We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow us.”

Freya obeyed, following the other Greybeards through the dark hallways of High Hrothgar towards another set of heavy doors. As they opened them, the brilliant white of fresh snow nearly blinded her. The monastery was settled on a cliff and the view of Skyrim was astonishing from its edge. The Greybeards were not impressed with the sight, as she was, and they continued toward the center of the courtyard. She hurried after them. 

They stood around a tall, iron gate. Behind it, the winds blew ferociously. Arngeir turned to her and gestured to the flurry of the wind. 

“We will now see how you learn an entirely new Word. Master Borri will teach you _Wuld_. It means Whirlwind.”

Freya nodded and faced Master Borri. As Einarth did, he spoke the Word into existence and it etched itself in fire on the ground beneath her. She stepped over it and the same rush overcame her as she absorbed his knowledge and learned the Word.

“You must _hear_ the Word within yourself before you can project it into a Thu'um,” Arngeir coaxed her. Freya did so and steadied her breathing. It was getting easier. “Master Wulfgar will demonstrate the Thu’um now. Then it will be your turn.”

Master Wulfgar stepped up to the gate and spoke, “ _Wuld… Nah...Kest!_ ”

In a barely visible rush, he quickly ran through it before it closed only a moment later. Arngeir turned to Freya. 

“Now it is your turn.”

Freya readied herself and as the gate opened, she summoned the Thu’um.

“ _Wuld… Nah...Kest!_ ”

She felt her body jolt forward with a speed she had never experienced and was suddenly on the other side of the gate. Walking back to where Arngeir was standing, she noticed the old man was staring at her with his mouth open.

“Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is...astonishing,” he said, shaking his head, “I had heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself…”

Freya tried to quiet her shaking hands, “It feels like breathing to me.”

"As it should. But know, skill does not outstrip your need for wisdom. I hope you would hold that in your heart, as you progress. You are now ready for your last trial.”

“I’m ready.”

“Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the Way of the Voice and you will return.” 

“You have nothing more to teach me now?” Freya frowned. 

“There is indeed much that we know that you do not. That does not mean that you are ready to understand it. Do not let your easy mastery of the Voice tempt you into the arrogance of power that has been the downfall of many Dragonborn before you. One day,” Argneir darkened, “I will tell you of Miraak. But, you are not yet ready.”

“The others,” she said, watching the other Greybeards walk back inside, “They’re silent.”

“Yes,” Argneir nodded, directing her back to the monastery, “Their Voices are too powerful for anyone not trained in the Way to withstand. Even a whisper could kill you. Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow if you wish to speak further, I will do my best to answer your questions. High Hrothgar is full of empty rooms and empty beds, you need only choose one to your liking and rest in it. Should you have need of supplies, you may take what it is you require. If you need to tend to yourself, we have rooms for ablution.”

“Thank you, Master,” Freya nodded as they reached the door. Inside, they parted ways and she watched the old, silent men congregate in their barracks. As she did, she felt the immense fatigue she had been fighting for hours overtake her. Looking around, she realized that Bishop was no longer in the hallway. As she walked through the monastery, she located him staring at one of the tapestries. It appeared to tell the story of a Dragonborn. 

“Most of them are men,” Bishop murmured.

“Not all,” Freya said, tracing the edges of the tapestries as she languidly walked down the hall. She stopped in front of a large tapestry depicting a woman. Bishop stood behind her, eyeing it. 

“Who is that?”

“Saint Alessia,” Freya mused, “the Slave Queen. Near the end of her reign, she was visited by Akatosh who bound her soul to the Amulet of Kings.”

“How do you know that?”

Freya laid her hand on Alessia’s face “I spent years in Cyrodiil, learned a great deal,” she murmured. Then, with a mischievous smile, she looked at him. “Did you know,” Freya said coyly, “It’s said that the son of Kynareth, Morihaus, was her demigod lover?”

“Ah, the Dragonborn needs a demigod for a lover, does she?”

“Perhaps she does.”

“Steep competition.”

Looking over the other tapestries, Freya was drawn to another. It was very old, more than a hundred years. She could tell by the wear of it. The tapestry showed dragons ruling over men, with their Dragon Priests supplicating under them. But, there was a shift. As her eyes went down the tapestry, the dragons appeared to be in supplication to another... to a man. He wore a Dragon Priest mask that was unlike any she had seen in the books she had read on them. She knelt down and looked at the words at the bottom of the tapestry and tried to make them out.

“ _The Rebellion of Miraak_ ,” she read, “Argneir mentioned him.”

“Who was he?” Bishop asked, looking over the tapestry himself. 

“I don’t know,” Freya stood and crossed her arms, “he said I was not ready to learn. Not sure what that means.” She shivered, she had not realized how cold she was. “Arngeir told me that we can just pick any bed they have here and make ourselves comfortable. Oh,” she raised a brow, “They have something for me to do, another trial.”

“Well, shit. Let me guess,” Bishop groaned, “It involves a lot of walking.” 

“Yes, unfortunately. In Ustengrav, he said. I _think_ he has a map...” she trailed off and started down the hallway towards another door. “I saw a room earlier, it looked like--” she stopped in front of an open archway, “Ah, here it is.” She gestured to Bishop to follow.

It appeared to be a library of some sort, with tomes and parchment stacked high. There were several maps of Skyrim, as well as Morrowind, Cyrodiil and other lands of Tamriel. It seemed that on the map of Skyrim, they had sloppily marked several locations of importance with associated notations. Luckily, one of which was Ustengrav. Bishop was leaning against the table, watching her. 

“Here we go,” Freya breathed, tracing a line to the ruin from the Throat of the World. She glanced to the right of it and saw that it was not entirely off course from Windhelm. She looked up at him. “Would you be opposed to a stop on the way?”

“Will that stop involve a warm bed and a stiff drink?”

“It would, yes.”

“Then I could care less.”

“Good,” she stood, her hands on her hips, “Then we need to go to Windhelm.”

“Urgent business?”

Freya rested her hand on her chin, “So it would seem, yes.” 

Bishop cocked his head toward her and lifted a brow expectantly. 

“This place,” she sighed, “There’s so much history in its walls. Hundreds of years of records about the Dragonborn who came before me--” Freya looked at Bishop with a pained expression, “--and the _power_ they held. Politics, faith, they had a hand in every meaningful pursuit, and not by foreordination. It was... _inevitable_. It was a part of their purpose. They helped to shape the world. And now,” she said, her voice shaking, “I must do the same.”

Bishop stepped toward her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“You can’t save everyone, Freya,” he murmured.

“I know,” she frowned, “But I can’t stand by and watch the Imperials and the Stormcloaks rage over a pointless war either. There won’t _be_ a Skyrim to rule if the dragons return to their former glory. They _must_ understand that. Who better to convince them than me?”

“Alright, ladyship,” Bishop nodded, “Tomorrow, we set off to save mortalkind as we know it. But for tonight--” his hand slid down from her shoulder and rested atop hers, offering comfort, “--you need to get some sleep.” He moved the map away from her, “The burden of glorious purpose will be here in the morning.”

“True.” Freya and looked at her feet, “I’m... I’m glad you’re here, you know.” For a moment, she almost felt like the trail his fingers had made on her arm was burning.

“So am I,” he muttered and squeezed her hand. 

Freya cleared her throat and removed her hand sheepishly, "I better get to the, uh," she said stepping toward the hall, "—I better get some rest."

"Yeah. I better find Karnwryr," he said, running a hand through chestnut hair. 

"You should," Freya mumbled, their eyes locked for a moment. She felt a familiar flush surge her skin and for once, she thought of more worldly things, other than its fate.


	8. Windhelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya meets Ulfric Stormcloak.

VII

**Windhelm**

The journey to Widhelm would not be an easy one and Freya knew it would be paramount to have enough supplies. As Argneir had offered them, she felt little guilt taking some of the non-perishables from their kitchens. She ransacked the cupboards and storage closets, careful to calculate how much they would need without overpacking. It had also occurred to her that she had only a single change of clean clothes. If they were going to be on the road, she would need to remedy that. 

In the rooms, there were chests settled at the foot of the beds. Opening each one, she looked inside for anything she could bring with her. There were a couple sackcloth tunics, long enough to wear to sleep on warmer nights and a dark grey robe. Freya organized her traveling pack and set them inside, satisfied with her findings. Slinging her quiver, bow, and pack on her back and shoving her daggers in their sheaves, she set out to find Arngeir and say goodbye. 

The old monk was sitting outside, meditating. As Freya approached him, he already seemed to know that she was there. 

“You are off, I presume,” he said, his eyes still closed. 

“Yes.”

“We shall continue in your training, when you return.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Argneir turned to her and stood, with some effort in his old age. “You may.”

“Why me?”

“I do not know, child. Some believe that Dragonborn are sent into the world by the gods, at times of great need. We will speak more of that later, when you are ready.”

“I want to know now.”

“That is natural, but I am asking you to trust my wisdom.”

“There’s something else, then,” Freya said slowly, “Before we retrieve the horn, I am going to stop in Windhelm and speak to Ulfric. You taught him, you know him. Do you have any wisdom to offer in that regard?”

Argneir frowned, “What is the nature of your need to speak with him?”

“I want to discuss the war.”

“Careful, Dragonborn,” Argneir warned, “the politics of Skyrim should not be your primary concern right now.”

“Master,” Freya explained, “Dragons have returned. You and I both know that is a threat more severe than vying for the next High King. If he fights for Skyrim, as he claims, he needs to understand that. I intend to have the same conversation with General Tullius.”

“It is not the Way of the Voice,” Argneir warned, “but I suppose the Dragonborn is an exception to all the rules -- the Dragon Blood itself is a gift from the gods. If we accept one gift, how can we deny the other? As Dragonborn, you have received the ability to Shout directly from Akatosh. We therefore seek to guide you on the proper use of your gift, which transcends the restrictions which bind other mortals.”

“Then, help me understand this man.”

Arngeir sighed, “Let us go inside. The cold is sinking into my bones now.”

They walked into the monastery and settled in front of one of the fires. Freya waited patiently for the old man to get comfortable before she pressed him further. 

“He trained with you,” she prodded.

“Yes,” Argneir said softly, “as a boy, he was brought here. We trained him for a decade. He was to become a Greybeard himself, but his life took a different path when the Great War began. He was captured by the Aldmeri Dominion during the Dominion's campaign for the Imperial City. Have you heard of the Markarth Incident? It reached even us.”

“Somewhat. There was a militia against the Reachmen.”

“Yes, led by Ulfric himself. The Jarl promised him that if he re-took the Reach, then they would allow free worship of Talos. Ulfric agreed and marched his militia to the gates of Markarth and retook the city--” Argneir darkened, “--using the power of the Voice to do so. That was the first of many acts of violence he committed using what we had taught him.”

“I see.”

“The Empire, of course, rescinded the agreement and Talos worship was banned. I have to believe this was where his rebellion against the Empire took root so furiously. Then, of course, you know of his challenge with Torygg. That,” he sighed, “is something only Ulfric can explain. Though, I doubt you will receive the full truth. I imagine that lies somewhere in the middle of his account and the account of Torygg’s widow, Elisif.”

“This conversation has brought you pain,” Freya said softly, “I am sorry for that.”

“It is as it is. There is no purpose in doting on it.”

“Thank you, regardless. This has helped.”

She stood and bowed to him slightly and made her way out of the hall.

“Be safe, Dragonborn,” Argneir called to her, his tired eyes still on the fire.

* * *

The frost bit more harshly in Windhelm than other cities. It was almost as if the snow was resistant to any warmth at all, even from the sun. They had been traveling for days and Freya was physically spent. When she glimpsed the outer edge of the city in the flurry of white, she felt deeply relieved. Her cowl covering her hair, they crossed the bridge toward the city and passed the stables, approaching the main gate. When they guards searched them and let them in, the overwhelm that she felt at a city with such deep history was immediately broken for her. 

A Dark Elf woman was in the middle of the courtyard in a heated argument with two Nord men. Freya could hear them even from the gate entrance. 

“You come here, where you’re not wanted,” a burly, middle-aged Nord said, “eat our good, pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks.”

“We don’t take a side because it's not our fight,” the Dark Elf woman said. 

“Maybe these Grayskins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies.”

“Imperial Spies?” the woman scoffed, incredulous, “You can’t be serious.”

“Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We’ve got ways of finding out what you really are,” he threatened her as he walked away. The Dark Elf woman crossed her arms. Bishop gave Freya a knowing look.

“Leave it, ladyship.”

She waved him off, “I just want to speak with her.” Freya approached the Dark Elf woman. “Are you alright?”

The Dark Elf turned to her, her eyes guarded., “What do you want?”

“At the moment,” Freya flexed her fist, “I would like to knock that man to the ground.”

The woman uncrossed her arms and smiled, if briefly. “Well, then,” she sighed, “You have come to the wrong city. Windhelm is a haven and prejudice and narrow-minded thinking. Rolff is the worst of them. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Gray Quarter yellowing at us in the small hours of the morning. Real charmer, that one. My name is Suvaris, by the way. Suvaris Atheron.

“Freya.”

“A pleasure.”

“What is the Gray Quarter?” Freya asked.

Suvaris’ eyes turned bleak and cold, “It’s the ghetto where they sequester us.”

Freya’s fist clenched. “ _Show me,”_ she snarled. 

Suvaris led Freya to where the Dark Elves had established their own community and the site filled her with a rage that threatened to overtake her entirely. It was impoverished and bleak. The houses were visually run down and many of them had no shutters or holes in the windows. In the Windhelm climate, enclosure was essential for survival. She noticed that there were no guards patrolling the streets of the Quarter either. 

“Where are the guards?” Freya asked, nearly breathless in her anger.

“They avoid the area altogether.”

“Who do you report crime to?”

Suvaris shrugged, “We don’t.”

Freya felt her body growing increasingly tense and she nodded quickly and thanked the Dunmer woman for her time, turning on her heels quickly and heading toward the center of the city. Bishop followed behind, barely keeping step with her.

“You need to calm down, Freya,” he warned and she flexed her fist. 

“No, I need to speak to Ulfric. _Now_.”

* * *

Freya forced her way into the Palace of the Kings, ignoring the guards’ questions outside as she barged in. The hall was large, larger than Dragonsreach by a significant margin. She approached the Jarl without being summoned and with a newfound contempt. Ulfric saw her and scowled, waving her off as she reached his throne. His guards stepped in front of her.

“Only the foolish or the courageous approach the Jarl without summons,” he said, his voice resonant in its tone and full of authority. 

“I hardly recognized you without a gag in your mouth,” she crossed her arms.

The corner of his lips twitched into a smile. 

“Ah,” he said, “You were with us at Helgen.”

“And perhaps I look different without an Imperial axe hanging over my head.”

“What do you want, woman?” he asked, intrigued. 

“I came from High Hrothgar,” she said indicatively. Ulfric narrowed his eyes a moment and then his face opened up and he assayed her with interest. 

“So,” he chuckled, “It is you. The tales of the Dragonborn had reached my ears, speaking of a woman pale as the snows of winter and furious as their winds. How are they Greybeards? I think of them often.”

“I imagine they would say the same but for entirely different reasons.”

Ulfric kept his eyes on here, never blinking, never moving. He seemed amused. 

“You aren’t here to join the cause, are you,” he asked lazily. 

“No,” she spat, “I am not.”

The Jarl, his eyes still lingering on hers, spoke to the men at his right.

“Galmar, Jorleif. Leave us.”

Taking his cue, Freya laid a hand on Bishop’s arm and he gave her a quizzical look.

“You go,” she ordered, her eyes locked with Ulfric’s. “Get us a room at Candlehearth Hall. I will meet you there later.”

“What, you need a little private time?” he scoffed.

“Yes,” Freya murmured, her eyes never moving. 

Bishop glanced over at the Jarl and back at her. Shrugging his arm from her and walking backwards toward the door, he held up his hands.

“Fine, ladyship. When you’re done playing politics, you come find me.”

Freya detected a hint of resentment in his voice, but ignored it and turned her attention back to the Jarl. He stood from his throne and stood across from her, his expression perplexing. 

“Come with me,” he said and walked to a room adjacent to the primary hall. Freya followed. It appeared to be the strategic room for the rebellion. A large, oak table was in the center of it, with a map of the provinces of Skyrim and markers for each outpost. In the corner was a table with food and a casque of alto wine. Ulfric poured a glass and handed it to her. Freya took it skeptically. 

“So, Dragonborn,” he said, pouring himself a glass, “What is it you want from me?”

“To appeal to your more reasonable nature.” Ulfric took a sup, waiting for her explanation. She sighed. “The dragons are a growing threat. You claim to fight for the people but it’s the people who suffer from their carnage. You and I both know that their return is the start of a greater threat than the Empire. If you put aside your own rage for a moment--”

  
“Is that why you think I fight?”

“Rage coupled with pride, yes.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, setting his glass down, “Then you do not understand me at all. I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths,” he approached her now, his voice escalating, “I fight for we few who did come home only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them who brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves.” Ulfric caught his breath and looked at her with the eyes of a tired soldier, “I fight... so that all the fighting I've already done has not been for nothing.”

In that moment, she understood why Nords abandoned their fealty to the Empire and followed him. He had the unique charisma that often accompanies both heroes and tyrants alike. She crossed her arms. 

“All the fighting you have done _will be_ for nothing if Skyrim burns.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“End the war.”

“No.”

“Then, find peace with the Imperials for the time being to address this.”

“That will be nothing more than a sign of weakness to them.”

“You _are_ weak,” Freya spat, her fists clenched, “I‘ve seen your city. I walked around your Gray Quarter and I spoke to the Dunmer who _depend on you_ to protect them. But you cast them into ruin and neglect.”

“You would not understand our ways here, the history of this city.”

“Then,” she threatened, “be prepared to lose the war entirely.”

Ulfric stopped behind her and narrowed his eyes. 

“Explain,” he ordered with an edge in his voice.

“The Nords follow you because you embody the spirit of tradition,” she began, a pale brow raised, “They abandon their pledge as citizens of the Empire because you appeal to our foundation, our history, who we are as a people. But tell me,” she locked eyes with him, “Who embodies the power and patriotism of Skyrim’s history better than I do?” With her hands behind her back and her head held high, she looked him over. “In the end, you’re the privileged son of a Jarl. And I? Well, I am the orphan, the impoverished, the forgotten. I was chosen by Akatosh and in my veins flows the same Dragonblood as Talos himself. I _am_ Skyrim.” Taking a step toward him, Freya continued. “If I fought for the Empire, do you really think they would not abandon you to follow me?” she said, taking a sip of her wine without breaking eye contact.

Ulfric said nothing and his expression betrayed nothing. But, he stepped away from her and leaned over the strategy map. He stood there for a moment in the silence.

“You are staying in the Candlehearth Hall, correct?”

“Yes,” Freya answered, frowning.

“I would be wary then,” he said, walking around the table and moving some of the markers, “My sister had a son who fancies himself a bard. He performs there.”

“The nephew of the Bear of Markarth is a bard?”

Ulfric glanced up at her, “He was no soldier, this was the best place for him.”

“Comical. Why would I be wary of him?”

“He is rather infatuated with your story, like many of the bards these days.”

Freya almost spit out her wine, “What?”

“You’re right,” he stood and crossed his arms, “They people do follow you. I imagine there is not a tavern or town in Skyrim that does not sing your praises.”

“I see. Then will you do as I ask?”

“I will think about it and that is all you should expect from me at the moment.”

Freya deflated, “Perhaps--”

He held up a hand and stopped her, “We are done, now. You said your peace, I listened. There is nothing left to say.”

But there was much left to say. Freya felt that he must not understand the gravity of these attacks, the ferocity of the dragons themselves. She resolved to find another way to speak with him about it. She nodded and turned to leave. 

“You never told me your name, Dragonborn,” Ulfric said. 

She paused at the door, “My name does not matter. Not anymore.”

* * *

When Freya entered the Hall, she did indeed hear the sound of a bard singing. Over the voices and cries and cheers of the tavern, she could make out some of the words. She sought out the source of the voice and found a young man singing and playing a lute in front of the fire. Idling in the corner of the room, she listened intently as he sang:

> _Our Hero, our Hero claims a warrior's heart_
> 
> _I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes_
> 
> _With a voice wielding power of ancient Nord Art_
> 
> _Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes_
> 
> _It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes_
> 
> _Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes_
> 
> _For the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows_
> 
> _You'll know, you'll know Dragonborn's come…_

As she listened, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, she noticed a familiar face sitting in the bar. It was that man from before, Rolff. Blinded by her rage, Freya walked over to him and proceeded to smack the tankard of ale out of his hands. Clearly drunk, Rolff screamed at her. 

“You little bitch!” he cried.

“I saw you speaking to Suvaris and I don’t like your attitude,” she snapped, starting to draw a scene from the other patrons. 

“What, you a Dark Elf lover? Then get out, you filthy piece of trash. Don’t like it? Too bad. This is our city. Don’t think I could take you, little girl? Hundred Septims says I can.”

“Oh, I would do it for free,” she smiled, cruelly. 

The old man got up and readied his fists, towering over her. He ran toward her and swung his arms at her. Freya dodged them easily, allowing him to tire himself out. After a moment, she waited for the right opportunity and proceeded to punch him, hard, square in the face. Rolff staggered back, leaning on the bar. Freya had busted his lip open. Then, his eyes started to roll back inside of his head and he fell to the floor, knocked out. 

She winced and flexed her sore hand. The tavern had gone silent. Placing a small coin purse on the bar, she looked at the bartender whose mouth was wide open. “Sorry about the mess,” she said and stepped over the body. Bishop had been sitting at a table across from where she was standing, watching the exchange. Now, he just shook his head as she approached him. 

“I think you have some mental condition,” he mused. She took the tankard out of his hand and took a drink. 

“I have several. Did you hear that song, when I came in?”

“Oh, one of the _many_ that bard has sung tonight about the illustrious Dragonborn? Isn’t that something, princess. The whole world is licking your boots. Bet you like that. Although,” he smirked, taking the drink back from her, “I can think of _several_ ways to make the Dragonborn come myself.”

Freya’s jaw dropped and Bishop proceeded to down his ale and gesture for the tavern girl to bring him another. 

“Excuse me,” she heard behind her. She blinked rapidly and turned around. 

It was the damn bard.

“I hope I am not intruding,” he said, his eyes wide and filled with awe, “Forgive me, my lady. Have I the honor of speaking to the Dragonborn? I had heard a rumor that you were here, in Windhelm. And I couldn’t help but notice...” he looked at her hair. 

Freya deflated, “Yeah. Uh, hello.”

“By the Divines!” he said, smiling so enthusiastically it was almost off-putting, “It is delightful to be _standing in your presence._ ”

  
“Delightful? Is that really the word we would use?” Bishop quipped. 

“Shut up, Bishop,” Freya rolled her eyes and turned to the bard, “Look, kid. You’re going to be sitting in a minute if you don’t--”

Then, without warning, the bard stood on a chair and addressed the entire tavern. 

“Today, we witness a living legend among us! None Other than the Dragonborn herself!”

“Oh, for the love of--”

Suddenly, the bard took her hand and knelt down in front of her. Freya stared at him, utterly horrified. “Our hero, our hero, indeed who claims this warrior’s heart! I told you, the Dragonborn came.”

“Not yet, she hasn’t,” Bishop murmured into his cup smirking all too confidently, and Freya threw him a crazed look.

 _“I am going to kill you_ ,” she mouthed silently.

“If I could just have one moment of your fine company, my lady,” the bard turned to her, “Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alec, Prince of Song.”

“Strange, so is mine,” Freya said in a deadpan tone. The bard didn’t even seem to register what she was saying to him. It occurred to her that he was purposefully putting on a show for the rest of the tavern. 

“I have spent so much of my time studying your adventures, from the terrors of Helgen to the eradication of the dragon menace in Whiterun. You are our hero! Your strength and humility brings hope to every soul in Skyrim. We bards, we sing your song so that our children’s children may remember the glory of the Dragonborn, savior of Tamriel.”

“Okay,” Freya said, trying to move her hand away. The bard grabbed the other in conjunction and continued in his raptures.

“Though, meeting you in person, my lady, I see no account of your beauty has ever given it the justice it deserves—”

Bishop choked on his ale. 

“That’s uh,” Freya muttered, “That is kind of you.”

The bard took a step toward her, “Kindness holds no place over modesty, my lady. I speak only the truth. You are a truly inspiring, beautiful muse for the beating heart of a passionate musician. Please, you must come to a special performance I am arranging here in Windhelm tomorrow night. I would be honored if you would be my personal guest.”

Freya lifted a brow, “You are Ulfric’s nephew, correct?”

Alec looked as though she had given him a solid gold lute, “You have heard of me?”

“He mentioned you,” she eyed him, “Briefly.”

“Yes, he is my uncle. He will be in attendance tomorrow.”

“In that case,” Freya smiled thinly, “I’ll be there.”

Bishop choked on his ale, again. Freya glanced at him. 

Alec kissed her hand and bowed, “Just you wait, my lady. I am so pleased to share the experience with you. I will prepare something special. Until tomorrow, my muse.”

He backed away, slowly, and Freya stared at the spectacle of him. It was like watching a giant trip over its own mammoth, she just couldn’t look away.

When he left and the tavern began to settle back to normal, albeit with a lot more staring from the locals, Freya fell in the seat next to Bishop and placed her head in her hands. 

“I have never yearned for the sweet release of death so emphatically,” she mumbled into her palms. Bishop chuckled and handed her a drink, which she took gladly. 

“That was quite the show,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I swear, I would sing about you myself if it got him to shut up.”

She lifted her head, “You really should. I would like to hear that.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, ladyship.”

“Gods,” she sighed, “I have nothing to wear to this kind of—” she clenched her fists, “Wha—Why has this become my life? _Why do I need to think about what I am wearing for these damn things?_ Why is this happening to me?” 

Bishop shrugged, “Easy. Go naked.”

Freya snorted and took a sip of her wine, “You wish,” she murmured in her tankard.

“You’re right,” he said matter-of-factly, “I do.”

The tone of their conversation shifted immediately. It wasn’t fun anymore. Freya glanced at him. His eyes were clear and completely serious. Something about his expression did not feel like the light, flirtatious banter that had become the norm between them. It had changed, somehow, and she didn’t like it. 

“Ulfric, uh,” she cleared her throat, “I wish I had something to report there.”

“Probably didn’t longingly stare at him enough.”

“Be serious, please. This is important.”

“Yes, it is,” he sighed, “But you and I are both exhausted and the last thing I want to talk about is all the ways you are breaking your back for a world that doesn’t deserve your effort.”

“What? Where is this coming from?”

“Nowhere,” he rubbed his eyes, “Don’t worry about it. I just need to get some sleep,” he said, whistling for Karnwyr. “Going to take him into the forest for a little, give him a chance to spread his legs. Room’s upstairs, first door on the left.”

With that, he left her alone. 

Freya finished her drink and walked upstairs. In the room, there was a single bed and what looked to be a makeshift cot on the floor. It was clear that the the bed was intended for her, Bishop would be sleeping on the floor. She leaned on the frame for a moment, touched by his continual relinquishment of his own comfort for hers. She fell into it and buried her face in the furs. Tomorrow was going to be a hell of a day. 


	9. The Fairer Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya learns more about Windhelm and attends a performance in her honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: The song originally in this mod is sub-par at best and, of course, not lore-friendly. When I heard “Her Sweet Kiss” from The Witcher, I immediately replaced it in my mind. 
> 
> This is the OST song.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VnHgZ3JF8pA
> 
> Here is an acoustic cover that I really enjoyed.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PO01xGdlQ4I 
> 
> Freya's (Drunk) Song (ESO)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaGEubOzrHs
> 
> P.S. The LOTR costume designers drew inspiration for Rohan from the Vikings, similarly to Bethesda drawing inspiration for the Nords. If I picture something specific in my head costume-wise, I like to add links. Who better to inspire me than my favorite character, Eowyn? 
> 
> Dress  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/33/32/8c/33328c101006c0dc245718edd3967eb7.jpg 
> 
> Hair  
> https://tse2.mm.bing.net/th?id=OIP.lqy6DCFb3Dj3Wu7S7c4exgAAAA&pid=Api&P=0&w=300&h=300

IX

**The Fairer Sex**

Freya woke up the next morning with a headache. Considering that she drank very little the night before, she was surprised by it. It was inconvenient nonetheless. She moved her feet and realized that a massive weight was on top of them, causing them to go numb. Sitting up, she saw that Karnwyr was lying on top of her legs.

“Hello, my boy,” she murmured, scratching at his ears. He opened his eyes, brilliant and gold, and gently licked at her hand. She had never noticed the similarities the wolf held to Bishop: the same amber eyes, the same chestnut coloring, the same turbulent personality. “Quite a pair, you too,” she sighed. Just then, Bishop stirred in his sleep. Speak of the devil.

Carefully, she slipped out of the furs and walked over to the storage cabinet to pull out her clothes. Since the inn was warm and enclosed, she had worn a tunic to bed and was eager to slip on her leather trousers and leave. Carefully, she pulled them out and got dressed, watching Bishop to ensure he was still asleep. 

When she was done, she deftly moved to the door, opened it, and closed it behind her. The inn was already lively and filled with men and women eating their morning meal. As covertly as possible she stepped out of the inn into the unforgiving winter of Windhelm’s streets. When a guard walked past her, she slipped on her cowl and approached him.

“You have a market, correct?”

The guard stopped and crossed his arms, “Yes, we do. Center of town.”

She pointed to a street, “Down that way?” The guard nodded. 

“Thank you,” she said and walked toward the market.

It was small, with a blacksmith at the entrance and several worn down stalls surrounding it. There was a butcher, what appeared to be a general goods vendor and an armory. Freya approached the general goods stall and a High Elf woman looked at her shrewdly. 

“What can I do for you?” she asked in an Altmer accent.

“I have something of an odd request.”

The Altmer woman smiled, “I can assure you I have heard worse.”

“There’s an event tonight, at the Palace of the Kings.”

“Yes, I am aware. Uninvited, but aware.”

“Right,” Freya said slowly, “I unfortunately am.”

The Altmer woman looked her up and down and smirked, “And you have nothing to wear, I imagine.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Well,” she sighed, “We may be able to help each other in that regard. I just got here from the Summerset Isles. The Civil War presents endless opportunity.”

“I would think that would disrupt your business.”

“Perhaps,” she countered, “But chaos is a ladder, if you have the sense to climb it. Records can be lost, taxes can be forgotten and laws aren't always enforced. The guards are often too busy with the Rebellion to notice a few smuggled goods or minor robberies. Not that I'd ever get involved in any of those kinds of things, of course,” she smirked, “Although, if the Jarl wants to take over all of Skyrim and seat himself as High King, it means he needs an elevated court and they will need to _dress_ like one.”

“Ah,” Freya nodded.

“You will notice that no one in this gods-forsaken place fills that need yet. I intend to fill it myself. There would be significant coin involved in being the primary clothier in all of Windhelm. So,” she leaned on her stall, “I will lend you something, you will wear it tonight, and you will ask Ulfric to provide me with a loan so I can set up a proper store.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Good,” the woman nodded and extended a hand, “My name is Niranye.”

“Freya.”

“Follow me, then. I have something that may suit you.”

The Altmer closed her stall and they walked to her home, settled in Valunstrad. It was grand but not overbearing. Freya paused at the door when Niranye opened it.

“Seems High Elves are treated better than the Dark Elves, here.”

Niranye scoffed, “Hardly. It was difficult at first. The Nords of this city are, at best, suspicious of outsiders. But in time, I made the right friends and proved myself useful enough that they don't give me trouble anymore. The Dark Elves are too proud and naive to understand the way things truly are, so they continue to dwell in that slum.”

Freya followed inside and Niranye held up a hand.

“Wait here, I will bring down what I have.”

She did so, looking at the relics that must have been brought over from Summerset Isles. She had always wanted to go to Auridon and see the sea. Why anyone would want to leave the temperate green beauty of the Isles to come to Skyrim was beyond her understanding. 

“Here we are,” Niranye said, holding a green dress.

“Why does everyone put me in green,” Freya muttered.

“I can’t speak for everyone,” Niranye dismissed, “But, the Altmer way is to invoke the beauty of Summerset in what we wear. Greens and golds and aspects of the trees. Change in there and we will see what alterations need to be made. You are rather skinny, aren’t you?”

“So I have been told.”

She took the dress, much heavier than she expected, and walked into the small room off to the side of the primary hallway. It was a beautiful piece, with delicate embroidery and sweeping sleeves. An added benefit, it was made with thick fabric. It would keep her warm. With her cowl removed, her white hair was fully visible and she wondered if the woman knew who she was. After she had put it on, she walked into the hallway and presented herself.

“Hmm,” she mused, her hand on her chin, “It will need to be taken in a bit but it should be suitable.” She walked to the back and pinned pieces of it, tightening the bodice. Stepping back, she smiled. “It will do. I think we should arrange your hair when you come back for it, considering this event is entirely about you.” Freya frowned and Niranye laughed. “What, you think I would just give _anyone_ an Altmer-made gown? I’m not stupid. I know exactly who you are. And frankly,” she walked to a chest sitting in the corner of the room, “if you were hoping to remain unidentified then it was unwise of you to pick a fight with one of the most hated men amongst merfolk here. Thank you for that, by the way. Warmed my long-cold heart.”

“It was a pleasure.”

“I am sure it was. Here we are,” she said, holding up a gold circlet that looked to be shaped like a ring of leaves. She set it on top of her head, playing with her hair and tucking it in in a makeshift updo. “That will do, I think. Come back here an hour or so before the party, I will make sure you look presentable.”

“Thank you.”

“Considering that you are a Nord, I assume it would be fruitless to ask you not to drink in the gown?” Freya threw her a look and she sighed, “Alright, then. Just be careful.”

“I will be the soul of caution.”

“I doubt that but I appreciate the sentiment.” 

* * *

Freya put on her cowl and left the house and headed toward the Hall, passing a small boy speaking with a Dark Elf woman. As she passed, she caught the end of their conversation. 

“...to summon the Dark Brotherhood?”

At the mention of the Brotherhood, her interest was piqued. Freya walked around the corner and pressed her body against the wall, so she could still hear them speaking.

“Oh, Grimvar,” the woman sighed, “Always with the nonsense. No, no, of course not. Those are just tales.”

“Well, then I will invite him out to play and just knock on the--”

“No, child!” the woman yelled, “That boy, that house--they’re cursed!”

“I knew it!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Is he trying to have someone killed?”

"All right. I won't deny it, child. What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin. Now, enough. We will speak no more of this…”

Their voices came closer and Freya ducked behind a pillar, allowing them to pass. She frowned and glanced at the door of the Aretino house. 

* * *

The Hall was subdued now. It was the middle of the day and its rooms were vacated save a few drunks that were practically adhered to a barstool. She walked up to the room and closed the door behind her, a thoughtful expression on her face. Bishop was sitting in the corner reading, again. It was as strange a sight as it was the first time. 

“I am starting to think you actually enjoy reading,” she teased.

“You wouldn’t be wrong. I do,” he murmured, his eyes still on the book.

She leaned on the door with her arms crossed, “What’s this then?” He held up the book without removing his eyes from its pages. “ _The Lusty Argonian Maid_. Really...”

He shrugged, “It was the only book in this shithole and you were gone for a while. _Surprisingly_ ,” he glanced at her, “I haven’t read it before.”

“It’s not a bad read,” she smirked, “Considering.”

“If he is trying to seduce her,” Bishop mused, “he is doing a poor job of it.”

“Oh, is he?” Freya raised the pitch of her voice in a mocking tone, “But she is but a poor Argonian maid, here to clean the chamber pots!”

Bishop snickered and read from the book, “‘Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear.’”

“‘But it is huge!’,” she quoted, “‘It could take me all night!’”

He closed the book, “Why in Oblivion do you have this memorized?”

“Because I grew up with five orphan boys,” Freya said and sat on the bed with her hands over her eyes, “There was little else to talk about.”

“Mhmm.”

Freya sighed. “There is a boy here, locked away in his home alone. Some townspeople were discussing it. Apparently,” she sat up to look at him, “he is trying to summon the Brotherhood.”

“Never a good idea.”

Freya raised a brow, “You’ve experience with them?”

“Not summoning them, no,” Bishop sighed and crossed his legs, “I killed my--” he stopped, cleared his throat, “--well, a man. Years ago. Turns out, there was a contract out on him already. The Brotherhood wasn’t pleased that I stole it and they made it known.”

“What happened?”

“Woke up in the middle of an abandoned shack with a Dark Brotherhood assassin standing over me. She insisted that I repay the debt to them,” he frowned, “So, I did.”  
“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. I did what they asked and she let me go. Wanted to recruit me after that one,” he chuckled, “But murderous cults are not exactly my thing.”

“We all do what we have to, I suppose.”

He cocked his head and studied her face, “You’re an enigma, you know that? I just told you I killed a man and you are taking it remarkably well.”

Freya hugged her knees, “I’ve had my share of poor choices. You told me something personal, so I will return the confidence. When I was sixteen, I left Honorhall. Didn’t get far before I was recruited into the Thieves Guild.”

“How long were you a part of it?”

“A long time. It wasn’t easy to leave.”

“Why did you, then?”

Freya’s expression became guarded, aloof, “It was personal.” Bishop, taking the cue for once, didn’t pry. “The point is, I have spent most of my life operating outside the rules of decency. It was never a choice. It was about survival.” 

“I know that, very well.”

“Mmhm,” Freya murmured, lost in thought for a moment. Memories, clear and painful, began to ink into her mind and stain her. She took in a deep break and sat up, shifting the tone. “So,” she asked, “Ready for this little party?”

“No, I couldn’t find enough wool to plug up my ears with. Not enough mead in all of Skyrim to get me ready for _this_ shit.”

Freya laughed, “Just keep your eyes on the free ale, somehow we’ll survive.”

“I think my eyes will be elsewhere,” he teased, “but you make a fair point, as always.” 

“We should head out.”

* * *

“Well, what you lack in body you make up for in hair,” Niranye sighed, taking a step back. “You have quite a lot of it. I think this will suffice.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No,” Niranye said, looking over her, “Just a fact.”

Freya stood and looked over Niranye’s handiwork in the mirror. “Glad I didn’t promise you I would abstain from drinking,” she chuckled, “I’m going to need it. Thank you.” She walked to the front hallway where Bishop was waiting and shrugged, “Well?”

He studied her for a moment, his expression guarded, “Regal.”

“Ridiculous, more like.”

“It suits you, actually,” he said cautiously, “If Ulfric gets his way, you can wear this to his crowning and then your subsequent wedding.”

“Glad you already have that planned,” she smirked, “Saves me the trouble.”

He frowned, “Alright, ladyship. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

The Palace of Kings was filled with the nobility of the hold. Her priorities intact, Freya found a servant carrying a drink tray and immediately downed a glass of alto wine, grabbing another before he left. The primary hallways were busy, but it looked like they were congregating outside another wing of the palace marked with burgundy curtains. Freya peered inside and saw a wooden stage set up in the back of it, rather elaborately. 

“Something tells me Ysgramor did not construct _this_ wing of the Palace,” Bishop snickered. 

“I have never been so afraid and I have slain dragons,” Freya groaned. She searched the faces in the crowd but did not see the one she needed. “Ulfric isn’t here,” she frowned, “If I have to endure this for nothing, I _swear_ to--”

As she spoke, the bard found her and made a scene. 

“You have come!” he called out, overjoyed beyond what was appropriate. 

“That is correct,” Freya smiled, thinly. 

Alec approached her and kissed her hand, but glanced warily at Bishop. 

“I, uh,” he stood and glanced back at Freya, “I was under the impression you would not be here. From what we discussed--”

“Just here to see the final masterpiece.”

Freya looked confused and her eyes darted between them, “Excuse me, ‘what you discussed’?”

“No matter,” Alec smiled, “I will show you to your seat, I sat you beside my uncle.”

She smiled shrewdly, “Excellent.”

Alec glanced at Bishop, “I did not set a place for you.”

“Oh, I can stand. We won’t be here long anyway,” he sneered, his arms crossed.

The bard grabbed at her arm and pulled her into the theatre, directing her to a seat where Ulfric was already sitting. He looked absolutely demoralized.

“The show will begin soon,” Alec grinned, “I will see you after, my muse.”

He kissed her hand, again, and lept away like a snow fox.

“I have to tell you, Jarl,” she said as she sat, watching him bound down the hall, “I don’t care for your nephew.” Ulfric laughed. He leaned in with a wry smile. 

“I don’t either.”

She shook her head, “The things we do for family.”

“Indeed.”

There was an awkward silence that followed and she flexed her fists.

“There’s a great deal more for us to discuss, you know.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “I know.”

“Speaking of,” she sighed, “In order to wear something besides blood-stained leather, I was supposed to beg your assistance for one of your merchants. She wants a loan.”

Ulfric rolled his eyes, “The rebellion has practically bankrupted Windhelm. Poor time to ask for help, even if I wanted to give it.”

“Suppose she could turn to crime,” she quipped, “like most of the non-human races in your city are forced to.”

He glared at her and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a woman addressing the atrium.

“Please all,” she called out, “Take your seats. Thank you. Yes, please take your seats.”

Ulfric gritted his teeth, “We are not done with this conversation,” he said as Alec walked on the stage.

“You’re right,” Freya growled, “We are not.” 

She peered around her seat, looking for Bishop. If he had abandoned her to this horror, she was going to kill him. Then, she spotted him leaning on the wall adjacent to her with a bored expression on his face. The bard took the stage and addressed the crowd.

“Good evening, Windhelm! May I thank you all for venturing out on this cold, wintry night to witness the One, the Great, Alec, Prince of Song.” Ulfric sighed and laid his forehead in his hand. Alec brought out his lute and gestured to where Freya was sitting. “I wish to dedicate this piece to someone very special to me--”

She sank in her seat. 

“She is an inspiration to us all and Skyrim’s great savior. With beauty unparalleled, I had to pen this song from my heart, to her.”

He began to strum the lute and Freya was surprised that not only was he quite skilled, but the melody itself was... well, good. She sat up slightly. 

> _The fairer sex, they often call it..._
> 
> _But her love's as unfair as a crook..._
> 
> _It steals all my reason, commits every treason..._
> 
> _Of logic, with naught but a look..._

She leaned forward, bewildered at the mere fact that this ridiculous man was not without musical merit. 

> _A storm raging on the horizon..._
> 
> _Of longing and heartache and lust..._
> 
> _She's always bad news, it's always lose, lose..._
> 
> _So tell me, love, tell me, love, how is that just?..._

> _But the story is this..._
> 
> _She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss..._
> 
> _But the story is this..._
> 
> _She'll destroy with her sweet kiss..._

Freya was aware that she probably had a strange look on her face for the entirety of the performance, but she was so surprised she had little power over her expression. She looked around for Bishop to seek his reaction, but he was no longer boredly watching. Something in his face looked distressed. As the bard continued, she couldn’t help but study him as his scowl deepened. Alec remained singing his song. It was strange, the words felt discongruent to his tone, like he was singing in a language he did not understand. 

> _Her current is pulling you closer..._
> 
> _And charging the hot, humid night..._
> 
> _The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool..._
> 
> _Better stay out of sight..._
> 
> _I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting..._
> 
> _If this is the path I must trudge..._
> 
> _I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance..._
> 
> _Garroter, jury, and judge..._

She could feel her breathing begin to shallow at the passion in his words. Despite herself, she was moved. Dragonblood or not, she was a woman after all.

> _But the story is this..._
> 
> _She'll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss..._
> 
> _Her sweet kiss..._

When he finished, the crowd applauded and cheered. He bowed, deeply, satisfied with himself. Freya sat there, unmoving and unsure of how to respond. As the applause lessened, the bard approached her with a confident smile. 

“I hope you were pleased,” he said. 

She stared at him, unable to form words at first. “It, was uh,” she narrowed her eyes, “Well, it was _actually_ quite--”

“Yes, she was pleased, bard. Normally she can form sentences,” Bishop said, waltzing up behind her. Alec eyed him.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I would like very much if you would dine with me tonight, my lady. If you would like, I would sing for you more. You could share all your wonderful stories from the road. And,” he cleared his throat, “if it pleased you, we could share an unforgettable night.”

Freya removed her hand, “Yes, well,” she smiled thinly, “That’s... very nice.”

“Your name could be sung from every rooftop until the end of your days,” Alec continued, “Just let me travel with you. You and I together, we could make quite a story.”

“What.”

Bishop snorted, “What are you going to do when you get attacked by a dragon, kid? Pull out your lute and lull it to sleep?”

“I was not speaking to you,” Alec scowled.

Bishop clicked his tongue at the bard, “I’d be a little nicer to me, ‘Prince of Song’. We both know you certainly aren’t Prince of Poetry.”

The bard tensed and flexed his jaw, “Fair enough.” He kissed her hand. “Then, good evening, my muse. Should you be interested in my offer, you know where I will be.”

He walked away to greet the other guests and bask in their adoration, and Freya turned to Bishop, her expression dazed. 

“What was that?”

Gesturing to a servant carrying ale, he grabbed a tankard and handed it to her.

“Just drink. Night isn’t over.”

She held it in her hands and looked around, growing increasingly frustrated. 

“Ulfric is gone,” she scowled, “Coward.”

“Freya,” Bishop sighed and she looked over at him, “Just fucking drink.” 

* * *

An incalculable amount of ale later, the night was starting to wane. After so many conversations with the nobility of Windhelm, and the forced smiles that accompanied them, Freya was starting to feel increasingly violent. It was becoming a repeat of the same pattern. Someone would ask her about her newfound acclamation, she would dismiss it, and then would proceed to tell her all about how they knew a Septim at one point or another or that they had something for her to do for them. Now, her eyes were starting to feel dry and she noticed that she was laughing at entirely inappropriate moments. Currently, she was talking to the blacksmith, Oengul War-Anvil, invited to the event because he worked for the Stormcloaks.

“... and, we found that if you simply hold it down it is easier to handle.”

She snickered. 

“... although, sometimes it does get too hot and you need to rub it...”

Freya was starting to lose it. 

“... actually, some of the best technique is using your fingers--”

“Oengul,” she slurred and placed a hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder, “This is profoundly interesting and I love hearing about it but I need to find my companion before he vomits in a Shrine of Talos. Excuse me.”

The blacksmith looked horrified and she tapped his shoulder and turned around to look for Bishop, lost somewhere in the sea of the aristocracy. When she did spot him, he was speaking rather closely with a bard woman. Intoxicated beyond reproach, Freya waltzed over and smiled with thinly veiled aggression toward her. 

“Can I make a request?”

The woman blinked, “I suppose, yes.”

“Do you know “The Dragonborn Comes”?”

“Yes, we all do.”

“Good. Do that.”

Freya turned to Bishop and lazily smiled, “Can we go, please?”  
The bard looked confused, “I am sorry, I thought you wanted me to play a song.”

“I do,” she smiled, “Go ahead, keep your mouth busy. That song is about me, by the way. So, you know. Enjoy that.” Her head lolled to the side and she looked over at Bishop with half-lidded eyes, “If we don’t leave now, you are going to need to carry me.”

Bishop raised a brow, “In that dress, I do _not_ want to have to do that.”

“Then come on.”

He crossed his arms and his usual satisfied smirk was fully displayed, “You know, ladyship, I’ve heard it said that jealousy is a vulgar trait.”

Freya rolled her eyes. He followed her toward the door but paused before they left and smiled mischievously, “Give me a second,” he said and ran into the theatre. When he returned, he had something behind his back. “Come on, go,” he hurried and forced her out the door.

When they were a good distance from the Palace, she looked behind him.

“Oh my Gods,” she said, her eyes wide, “Did you steal his lute?”

“I did.”

Freya burst into drunk laughter and Bishop shushed her and grabbed her hand, “Come on, woman. You’re going wake the whole damn town.”

* * *

After they had stumbled into the Hall, they settled in the loft area and Bishop ordered her some food and water. When it came, he commanded her to drink it. She grimaced and he lifted a brow. She obeyed.

“You are going to thank me in the morning,” he chided. 

Freya removed the circlet from her hair and set it on the table, “Don’t let me forget that,” she grumbled as she untangled the strands of her hair that had been held captive. After eating and drinking something besides ale, she was starting to feel more sober. Looking down at her dress, she frowned. It was too warm. She stood up, swayed ever so slightly, but didn’t fall. 

“I am going to change,” she declared and walked toward their room. Bishop stopped her with a grunt. She looked back and he was holding the circlet out. “Ah,” she nodded, taking it from him. “Thank you.”

When she got into the room, Karnwyr jumped on her, crying in delight. After petting him for a moment and calming him down, she worked to remove the dress and change into something lighter. Once again, the dress that Jarl Balgruuf had given her came in handy. After she changed, with her hair let down, she felt infinitely more comfortable. When she walked back to the loft, Bishop was fooling around with the lute. 

“Do you know how to play that?”

“Nope.”

“Then why did you steal it?”

Bishop smirked, “Because I hate that bard.”

“What did you discuss with him, then? He said you two discussed something.”

“When?”

“Bishop, I was standing right there.”

He glanced at her, “He came by when you were gone, wanted to know more about you. I imagine it was for his little performance. Asked some invasive questions.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t,” he set the lute down, “I just wrote the damn song for him instead.”

Freya felt sober immediately. 

“What.”

“Well,” he rolled his eyes, “He had the melody already, he’s the bard. I sure as hell am not. I just helped him a little bit with the words,” he took a sip of his ale and grimaced, “What he had was nauseating. I believe the phrase ‘only you can save me’ was used at one point?"

Freya felt that same familiar burning in her skin and her heart started to beat rapidly. 

“I--” she blinked, “Where did you, uh--” she fidgeted with her hands, “ _Why_ did--”

He interrupted her and looked at her pointedly, “You’re drunk, Freya. And I don’t want to have this conversation when you’re drunk.” It was very clear from the look in his eyes that was the end of it but she was not ready to let it go. In fact, she thought she was going to cry. Her chest felt heavy and her hands weak. Quickly, she took the wine that was sitting on the table and downed it, providing herself some liquid courage. 

“Okay,” she breathed, “In that case--” she leaned over and grabbed the lute, “--maybe it's time you get what you want.” She settled into the chair and set it on her lap, positioning her fingers over its strings. For a moment, she picked at them, refamiliarizing herself. She grimaced, “I haven’t done this in awhile so lower your expectations, please.”

Bishop stared at her, amused and intrigued. He sat back in his chair with his arms crossed. Freya took a deep breath and began to pluck out a sweet melody that was familiar to her. Softly at first, she started to sing the only song she remembered how to play. 

> _O my sweet love, she waits for me,_
> 
> _Through storm and shine, cross land or sea..._
> 
> _I run to her and together we,_
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._

He watched her intently for a moment, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. 

> _Her graceful shape I heave up high..._
> 
> _And in one hand I hold her nigh..._
> 
> _Her waiting lips are never dry..._
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._

Bishop frowned. 

> _Come the morn she goes..._
> 
> _The taste of her remains..._
> 
> _And in my mind, I see us sway..._
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._
> 
> _Sway as we kiss..._

As she finished, a coy smile on her face, Bishop rubbed his eyes, “Did you just sing me a love song about mead?”

“You bet I did.”

He burst into laughter, “You are full of surprises, ladyship.”

“Apparently so are you.”

"Yeah," he murmured, "You bring out some weird shit in me, I can tell you that much."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: “Did… Did you just include a reference to Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, AND the Witcher in one chapter? Are you okay?” No, reader. I am not. I am a nerd.


End file.
